9 Days of Christmas
by Tokyo Sunset
Summary: Our beloved mercenaries are unable to return home at Christmas. Though this is sickening to most of them, and thought to be the worst Christmas of their lives, they will soon find out that they've already had a lot worse...
1. On the First Day Of Christmas

**Reader: **What the hell is this, Tokyo?

**Me:** It's... it's nothing. Just, uhh...just a Christmassy fic I've been working on, and-.

**Reader: **Christmassy? But it's November!

**Me: **That's why I was thinking of uploading one chapter a week.

**Reader:** Before I soil my eyes reading this garbage, tell me what to expect.

**Me: **Okay... *ahem* No yaoi, no shipping, little if any romance and maybe some gore and weirdness thrown in.

**Reader: **_Romance?_

**Me:** Don't worry, it's more disturbing than anything.

**Reader:** ...If I read this, will you stop stalking me?

**Me:** I can't promise I'll try, but I'll try to try.

**Reader:** ...fine.

* * *

_Badlands, New Mexico, Christmas Eve, 1970_

Christmas Eve. For some a time of joy, love and caring, a glorious break for the gloomy year before. For others, it was a day like any other day, with a slightly more festive atmosphere, somewhat better cuisine, and irritating music playing a bit more frequently on the radio. But for all of mankind, it was a day of celebration, no matter how unnecessary. Some would go to parties; some would meet the loves of their lives. Some would spend time with their families, and some would stay at home alone, rewarding themselves for surviving the year with a glass of sweet liquor. Everyone found a way to enjoy Christmas, children frolicked in the snow, spouses reminisced the good times they had with each other, and even the grumpiest of elders found a smile on their face, watching all the young people enjoy the holiday season.

And then again, there was the RED team, tucked away somewhere in a military base in New Mexico.

"This is bullshit!" yelled the Scout, kicking a sofa before plummeting into it, his arms crossed on his chest. The rest of the team ignored the Bostonian's outburst. Nobody wanted to be in the base, but orders were orders. The Soldier and the Heavy were playing poker with a stash of bullets; the Engineer was plucking at his guitar strings uninterestedly while looking out of the window and onto the reddish field illuminated by the soon to be setting sun; the Demoman continued his gritty mission of getting drunk, while the others were pacing around the base, rather nervously.

"I was supposed to visit my Ma for Christmas dis year. 'Aven't seen 'er in forever. I booked a freakin' flight and everything! And then dis old hag decides that we're fightin' tomorrow! On Christmas Day! Can you believe dis? Can you possibly compre'end the current situation?"

"We can, boy," responded the Texan rather angrily, but still managing not to snap completely. "We were there when she announced it. We are all mad about it, but we don't go 'round kicking furniture. Keep quiet, boy. No one is happy 'bout this."

"Fucking bitch," Scout commented before turning to his side.

It was strange, silence at the RED base. Soon, the Spy uncloaked in the centre of the room, with a frustrated expression on his face.

Or at least, a more frustrated expression than he usually had.

"Any news, private?" Soldier asked, flicking the ashes of his cigarette onto the floor as Heavy scooped over a small pile of bullets. The Spy clicked his tongue.

"I'm afraid ze Administrateour ees relentless. We are to fight the BLUs at seven a.m. sharp. No exceptions."

"So wat? Not only do I hafta stay 'ere, I hafta get up early, too? Worst. Christmas. Ever." Scout rolled once again in his sofa.

"_Oui._ She also added zat we could use this chance to practice for ze upcoming battle." The Frenchman took a cigarette from his jacket, lighting it almost immediately. The rest of the team protested in annoyance. The Sniper revealed his face, appearing in the back of the room and slightly lowering an old issue of _Saxton Hale's Mildly Thrilling Tales_.

"Loike Oi aven't 'ad enough of you as is," he scoffed before returning to this week's less-than thrilling issue, _Saxton Hale Eats Salisbury Steak. _The Soldier squinted at the magazine.

"You read that senior-friendly drivel, maggot?"

The marksman looked down at the magazine cover, featuring Saxton Hale stuffing six steaks in his mouth while simultaneously fighting off a grizzly bear. A couple of distressed old ladies were gasping in the background. The Sniper shrugged.

"Oi normally use it to wrap fish. But since there isn't anything to do 'round 'ere but to sit on our asses all day, Oi decided to take a peek at it." He looked at the magazine once more, promptly tossing it behind him and hitting the arriving Pyro on the head.

"Honestly, Oi feel bad for the fish."

The Pyro rubbed its head and let out a slight groan. It made its way towards a small wooden stool and sat on it, propping its hands up on its knees. The awkward silence continued for a few more moments.

"Worst. Christmas. Ever."

"Yep," the Engineer agreed, plucking once more at his guitar. Suddenly, the group heard quick footsteps coming from just outside the room. They were getting louder and louder, until a certain German doctor waltzed into the living area, a big smile on his face.

"_Guten Abend, Frauleins! _I haff spoken to zhe Administrator's assistant. Ze battle vill commence as planned. Ve are going to dominate zhose BLUs! Are you as excited as I am?!" he cheered. Sadly, none of his teammates gave out a response, save the crickets chirping in the distance as the Scout mumbled something into the sofa cushion. The corners of Medic's lips dropped, and he walked into the centre of the room, looking at the three bullet holes in the wall, possibly formed in their previous battle.

"Vatt ist ze matter vith you today? Vhere is your battle spirit?"

"Eet died when we found out zat we're not getting our Christmas leave," said the Spy, flicking his cigarette ashes on the floor. He didn't need this battle at all. Not one bit.

"Ach, but surely, you are at least _ein bisschen _excited about it, _ja_?" he looked around the room, nervously. The Heavy remained quiet, not really caring about answering the German's question. The Sniper pulled at the fabric of his fingerless gloves.

"Eye," the Scot lowered the bottle of Scrumpy from his lips, "We might be a littl' eager ta fight, but we don' won ta fight on this eve, lad. It's against our contracts. The old lass that yells at us really did dew it this toime."

Some other mercenaries nodded in agreement. The Medic's gaze switched from one uninterested colleague to another, until it stopped on a burly patriotic American.

"_Et tu, Herr_ Soldier?"

The Soldier dropped his cards to the table in annoyance upon losing all of his ammunition. He sighed and looked up at the German, his helmet covering his eyes.

"Look, Fritz, there is nothing I love more than destroying the BLUs for all they're worth. Killing, fighting and America are my three absolute favorite things in the world. But…" he tilted his head down, dealing the cards again upon finding a spare pellet in his sock; "Fighting at this time is… it's un-American, private. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy."

"Worst. Christmas. Ever."

"We heard you first time, leetle baby man," the Heavy responded, barely taking his eyes off his flush. The doctor sighed and shook his head.

"Vat is it about you and Christmas? Is it such a tragedy if you stay here and work?" he sat on an armrest of the sofa, making the Scout pull his feet away.

"You complain because you're stuck here. Is spending a holiday here is zuch a tragedy? Ze Administrator didn't give two shits vhen I asked her for _mein_ holiday leave."

"Oktoberfest can't count as a holiday, mate." The Aussie tilted his head to the side.

"Vell it does in Stuttgart! Besides," he adjusted in his seat; "I know we haff all had our share of terrible Christmases. Believe me, zhis doesn't come close to some holidays I've had."

The group let out a series of grunts showing reluctant agreement. The Heavy squinted as the sun shined from the three bullet holes and onto his eyes. He turned to the doctor. At that point, a faint sound was heard from far beneath the sofa cushions.

"Well, it's my worst Christmas ever."

The Scout sat straight up on his seat, allowing the Medic to scoot off the narrow armrest. The REDs were now looking at the Scout, albeit coldly. The Scout didn't let this discourage him, and he looked down at his sneakers. As he sighed deeply, the REDs already knew that the rant he was about to conduct would be quite lengthy.

"Every freakin' Christmas I spent home. My Ma would cook, my brothas would come, man, we would have the best Christmas dinnah dis side-a Bowash. Freakin' turkey, freakin' gravy, freakin' cookies! Mmph!" he stomped his feet quickly as he thought about this, sticking his tongue slightly out the corner of his mouth.

"I should've been home now, stuffin mah face wit dem cookies! But nooo… I 'ad to stay 'ere witchu knuckleheads." With that, he crossed his arms and fell back into his seat. The Texan near the window sighed.

"Well, boy, ah 'ppreciate you bein' homesick, but ah really, really, don't wanna hear 'bout it right now. You ain't the only one feelin' that way."

"Oi think it's cute in a way. Lil' wankah misses his mummy. Koind of endearin' if you ask me." The marksman managed a small grin, quickly evading a pillow the young Bostonian threw at him in anger.

"I am **not** homesick, ya moron!" he crossed the palms of his hands together and looked into the distance. This time he spoke quietly, nostalgically.

"It was just Ma and us on Christmas, ya know? That's da way it's always been, since I can remembah. And it was always cool, I guess. Coolah den dis, anyway." The Scout looked out of the window, and onto the glistening surface of the wasteland sand. His mouth formed a straight line, something halfway between a smile and a frown.

"Except dat one time… Dat one time when I was five or so… Now **dat **was a pretty sucky Christmas."

"Oh please, enlighten us. 'Ow will we _ever_ live without knowing about your terrible, _terrible_ childhood?" the Spy said sarcastically. He didn't know, however, that the Scout knew no concept of sarcasm, except when he used it himself. Selective understanding, one would say.

"K, umm… where do I start? I think I was five then… Six? Nah, it was def'netly five. It was Christmas Eve, kay, and everything was goin' great. My bros were there, dinnah was there, everything was freakin' sweet! We had our presents, the tree… Normal stuff, right?"

The Bostonian then emitted something that resembled a slight chuckle. The team listened to him. They didn't really want to listen to him, but figured that it would probably be better than sitting around doing absolutely nothing.

"Yep, we were already havin' ourselves a pretty good time when our Ma told got one guest ovah. What started so well, turned into the worst Christmas evah. Well… _second_worst."

The group groaned.

"Ya see, guys, dis was mostly a fam'ly event, Christmas and shit. And on that day, of all days, my Ma snapped. And she brought home her. Freakin'. Sleazebag. Boyfriend."

* * *

**Reader:** ...That was truly awful.

**Me:** You've had worse.


	2. I Saw Ma Kissing Santa Claus

_Boston, Massachusetts, Christmas Eve, 1954_

It was a normal evening at the Morrison's household. The whole family was there, in their small apartment 14A on Baker Street. Nobody could really explain this family dynamic, which was as complex and astonishing as the city of Boston itself. A rustic, modern, old, avant-garde city in New England was indeed a conundrum. It was considered to be a wondrous metropolis that could not be explained in a word. This family was the same way. The relations between a single mother and her eight sons would be far too difficult to explain in a single sentence, paragraph or even an entire chapter. The greatest minds in history could study this family for decades, writing endless thesis and theories concerning it. Entire books would be written about their relations, what they do, why they do what they do and how they do it. And, yet, they still couldn't quite figure out this infamous family.

However, the residents of Baker Street knew but one thing about the Morrison's at apartment 14A. One thing, which was more than enough information to keep them as away from this family as possible.

The Morrison's were very, very, _very_ loud.

"GIVE IT BACK!"

"Make me!"

The Morrison boys were fighting once again, much to the neighbors' despair. The Morrison boys were a lively bunch. The oldest one was just finishing high school, while the youngest one was only one year away from starting elementary. From oldest to youngest, their names were as follows; David, Clark, James, Steven, Otis, Kyle, Emmanuel and Bill.

And on that certain Christmas Eve, Kyle was pinning Bill down to the dusty floor, not letting him reach his baseball tucked in the palm of Otis' hand. Otis was sneering menacingly.

"You want the freakin' bawl? Come and get it!"

The five-year old was grunting as he tried to break free from his brother's iron grip, but as soon as his head wiggled out of the carpet, it came down with a thump, as the nine-year-old now sat on him.

"GIVE IT!" he demanded. Otis tossed the ball up in the air a couple of times. He saw a couple of salty liquid drops forming on the corners of his brother's eyes, which he interpreted as tears. However, it would later turn out that these were sweat drops falling from his eyes. Either that, or residue coming out of Bills eyes due to the five-year-olds angry squinting.

Either way, they were definitely not tears.

Not tears at all.

"Give it or I'm tellin' Ma!" the child demanded, in a completely masculine and non-whining manner.

"I don't get why I have to pin him down," Kyle suddenly spoke. "He's a lot stronger than he looks. Why do you get to stand there?" He felt a vigorous jolt as the child attempted to break free once again. Kyle shook but stood his ground.

"Because I'm older, butt wipe!"

"Older by three minutes!" Kyle shrieked, loosening his grip on the youngest of the pack.

"If you guys don't stahp it now, I'm tellin' Ma, and you'we goin' to be in twouble!" Emmanuel spoke relatively quietly, munching on a chocolate chip cookie. He got up from the beige couch he was sitting on. Otis was not pleased with this remark.

"Shut up, dumbass! We're nine, and you're six or something!"

"S-seven and a half…" Emmanuel protested shyly, gulping down the dry cookie.

"Whateva, you're still a lil' shrimp compahed to us!" At that moment, Bill freed himself from the clutches of his brother, who was already bored of this game and loosened his grip. He pushed Otis and retrieved his ball, scratching his thieving brother's hand in the process.

"My ball!" he exclaimed, bringing it close to himself.

"My dad caught this fo' me. Not fo' you, fo' me! See?" he pushed the ball in his brother's face, to which Otis reacted by attempting to bite the leathery surface. The tot pulled his arm back quickly.

"I need-a keep it in shape," he mumbled to himself. "Might be a collectibul some day, you nevah know. Das-a what dad said."

Clark revealed his acne prone adolescent face from behind the newspaper. He turned to James, who was placing a large star atop their rather small Christmas tree, pushed against the window.

"You know, it's funny; the kid can say 'collectible', but can't tie 'is own shoes."

"Less yappin', more helpin'!" James pointed at a box of leftover decorations, signaling Clark to put it away. At that moment, there was a knock at the door. The boys casually looked at the wooden entrance, not wanting to open it. Their mother ran out of her room, fixing a silver earring until it was set properly. She made quick, nervous steps towards the door.

"Ma," noticed twelve-year-old Steven, who was sitting on the floor and wrapping his arm around an unknown girl; "You look hawt today. What's up?"

His mother fixed the creases on her formal red dress and looked towards her son.

"Well, we're having a guest over, so I just threw this on."

"Aw, Ma, it ain't that grocer guy, is it? You're bettah den dat!" Steven noted while his female friend nodded in agreement.

"Come on, Steven, he's not that ba-… Who are you?" she looked at the blonde sitting next to her son, picking at her nose piercing. She smacked her black lips together.

"I'm Kelli, with an 'I'. I'm chillin' 'ere with Steve," she scooted near him. "Don't tell my folks I'm here. They think I'm at my friend Daisy's."

Ms. Morrison clapped her hands together and tilted her head to the side, a wide wry smile forming on her perfectly made-up face.

"Well, Kelli-With-An-I-Whose-Parents-Think-She's-At-Her-Friend-Daisy's, will you be joining us for dinner tonight, too?"

Kelli shrugged.

"If you insist." Kelli tilted her head to the side and kissed Steven on the lips. His mother exhaled curtly.

"Steve's gonna be a pimp some day," muttered David, carrying a bowl of mashed potatoes out of the kitchen and onto the dining room table. His mother frowned at her eldest son, but soon turned that frown into a forced, radiant smile as the man knocked on the door once more. She quickly separated the two love birds and walked out of the apartment. Billy could hear his mother speak to the person on the other side. He knew that it was the grocer. Ma and he spent a lot of time together lately, so it must have been him.

It has been a long time since her divorce with his dad. To a five-year-old, a year was a long period of time indeed. The only material thing he had from his father was a baseball, which he protected with his dear life. Neither one of his brothers understood his strange connection with that ball retrieved from Fenway park. Of course they didn't understand. His father was there with them. They had a chance to meet him. But to Bill, his father was now becoming more of a shadow, that visited him occasionally, on alternate weekends. Sometimes not even then. All he had from his father was the ball, and certain childhood memories of his father dressing up as Santa Claus, or giving him piggy-back rides down and up the stairs. He missed him, and deep inside, he knew that his Ma missed him too.

But did she really need to find somebody to take his place?

_"Oh, John, you didn't have to do this…Well, it is sweet… oh, they are gonna love this…"_

She ran back into the apartment, instructing everyone to stand up. And they did.

"Okay, guys, I have a special surprise for yoooooou…" she cooed, her voice sounding like a tune; "I ran into Santa Claus the other day, and he told me he had some very, very special gifts for you!"

She immediately gave a stern look to her children older than nine, which only meant one thing;

_"Don't ruin this for your brothers."_

"Come on in, Santa!" she yelled out the door. Immediately, a man in a plushy red suit walked through it. He was carrying a large bag over his shoulder and struggled to speak through his thick white beard.

"Ho, ho, hooooly crap, there is a lot of ya!" The Santa looked around the brood, and soon received an irritated look from his beloved Ms. Morrison. He cleared his throat, hoping that the younger children didn't hear his profanity.

"Well, uh… I have come bearing gifts for the nice kids in this house!" he lifted up his bag, and the children's eyes widened with glee. The first thing he pulled out was a stack of records. Those were meant for the older children. After those were delivered, James, Otis, Kyle and Emmanuel stood in a single file, anxiously awaiting their presents. Bill stood behind them, carefully clutching his ball. They all obtained their gifts, according to their age. James got a train set, Otis and Kyle both received a Mr. Potato Head and a couple of Slinkies. The twins quickly ran outside of the apartment to test it on the staircase. Emmanuel received a box of chocolates, which he ate in what seemed like a minute and a half. Bill looked at all the things his brothers received, wondering what he was going to get. The Santa suddenly looked towards the youngest boy with an inviting smile, just barely visible through his thick beard.

"Don't think I forgot you, lil' fella. Come 'ere!" Santa invited him closer. While Bill was running over to him, he heard Santa whisper something into her mother's ear while slyly fingering something on the mantelpiece, which made her blush and giggle. Something about him giving her a present even though she had been naughty.

Or, maybe, giving her a present _because_ she had been naughty.

But that didn't make any sense, because Santa didn't give gifts to naughty people.

And he wasn't' supposed to make any exceptions, either.

Man, this Santa was dumb.

Bill anticipated his gift impatiently, hopping from left to right.

"Come on! Gimme, gimme, gimme!"

"Alright, fella. Just put down that ball for a sec…"

"My…ball?" Bill raised his eyebrow. He instinctively clutched it tighter.

"Well, you don't wanna spend the whole night holding that tattered ol' thing, don't ya? Now hand it over so I can give you a real present," he said warmly, stretching his palm out for the boy to put the ball in.

Bill looked nervously towards him mother, who was giving him encouraging looks. The young boy frowned, and squeezed the ball tightly with both of his hands.

"No."

"Come on, Billy…" his mother cooed softly. This didn't make the boy drop his guard down.

"No…" he whined.

When Santa reached out to grab the ball from him, Bill simply lost it. He jerked his hand towards him, shouting.

"No can has my ball! No can has! I won't give!"

In anger, the tot pulled the man's beard, trying to hurt him. This, however, did nothing, as the man's beard fell on the floor, revealing only a speck of blonde stubble on the thin face of the grocer his mother usually went to. Bill was an expert on fake Santa outfits by now, and knew that this Santa's performance was terrible. He knew that the real Santa Claus wouldn't be coming through the front door, while everyone was awake. His father was the only man who made that silly mistake. His father was the only true fake Santa, and what Bill was now seeing was an impostor, trying to wiggle himself into his life doing the same thing his father had done only last year.

"You ain't Santa!" he pointed at the confused man. The older siblings chuckled while the younger siblings dropped their jaws in shock.

"You ain't Santa! You ain't my dad! You ain't nothin'!"

His mother reached her hand out to comfort her angry son, but he quickly ran through the room and opened the door of his room. Everybody was staring straight at the angry five-year-old, his nostrils flaring and his face turning a sickly color of purple. He pointed his finger at the confused grocer.

"You can't come in here and pretend you're my dad! You're not! You will nevah be my dad! Evah!"

He ran into his room with great haste. His siblings could only see a small blurry flash of his green elf hat before he ran into his room and slammed the door shut. In about two seconds, he opened the door again, half apologetically. This time he turned to his mother, hastily trying to excuse her son's behavior to her guest.

"He took something from your bookshelf while you wasn't lookin'."

With that, he closed the door one final time. He closed it carefully this time, though, not wanting to get himself into more trouble.

Bill could've been in his dark, messy room for hours, for all he cared. He threw his festive hat on the floor, burying his face in his blue plushy pillow and pushing some of Otis's toys off his bed. He could hear yelling coming from outside of the room. David was trying to persuade him to come out of his lair; his brothers were fighting over the grocer's fake beard, while mother's companion was trying to explain himself for thieving. Bill didn't care about the noise. He didn't care about anything at that point. He was angry at the fake Santa and disappointed at his mother. If she really loved him, she wouldn't have brought another man in the house on Christmas Eve, who tried to take away his ball. If she really loved him, she wouldn't have let the man come dressed up like that, reminding him of his father.

He didn't budge when he heard the door opening slowly, and soon the soft, careful footsteps approaching him. He didn't care who his visitor was, but he wanted him out of his room as soon as possible.

"Go away," Billy muttered, covering himself with the pillow once more. This didn't make his guest disappear, as he hoped. The unknown figure sat next to him on the bed, placing his hand on Bill's shoulder. The voice that filled the dark room belonged to his brother James.

"Why are you hidin' here? It's Christmas, you're missing all the fun! You haven't even gotten your present."

Bill threw his pillow on the floor angrily.

"I don't want no stinkin' present! That guy ain't my dad!" With that, he buried his face in the mattress once more. James put his arm around his brother, messing up his short, slightly curly hair. He could still hear his mother yelling at her date, her sons, and later the girl Steven brought over.

"Why isn't dad here?" asked Bill, looking at James with his giant Bambi eyes. James fidgeted nervously, trying to explain.

"We agreed, bro. Ma gets Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Year and Fourth of July, and dad gets Birthdays and Halloween. I thought we were clear on that."

Bill shrugged and wiped some snot off his nose with his sleeve.

"I know, but… It ain't Christmas without dad. And Ma's new guy ain't any good."

"I know, bro, I know…" he listened to the shouting in the distance, followed by a plate shattering into a million pieces. James looked at his little brother and smiled.

"Hey. Don't think of him as the new dad, OK? Think of him as… as a phase. Something Ma will snap out of. I mean, the guy if a freakin' tool." James' mouth formed a small devilish grin.

"You know what? You just say the word, and we'll give dis guy a food fight he'll nevah forget! We'll help Ma get rid of dis guy. He'll be pulling peas outta his greased up hair 'till March. Whaddya say?"

Bill blinked out a tear from his eye, before finally looking back at his brother. He was glad that somebody could understand his fragile five-year-old mind at this point.

"Kay," he said with a smile and jumped off his bed.

* * *

"We gave the guy a run for his money," Scout began wrapping up his story, after almost twenty minutes of babbling. "But Ma was pretty pissed at us. She grounded us. For Christmas, even! Still, the guy's look on his face as he was bein' pelted by gingerbread men was priceless," he cackled.

"Yeah, that's the last we evah saw of dat guy. Still, Ma did get ha'self a new boyfriend. I hated him like hell. He was a freakin' snob. Ahways leavin 'is cigarettes everywhere, tawkin' funny and whatnot. Ma told me dat I should at least pretend to like da guy, but I didn't see the point."

Scout crossed his arms stubbornly. His teammates were casually looking over to him. He did not care if they would be listening to him or not, since he would be telling his story either way. But there was something strange about their, admittedly limited, interest. It made the atmosphere a bit friendlier, a bit more comfortable to be in.

It was weird.

The Scout looked down at his feet with a nostalgic smile.

"My dad, he… he never really came back. I mean, it later turned out that he wasn't even my real dad. I think finding out about that drove him away. Or bettah yet, I drove him away." The Bostonian kicked his feet nervously, trying to fill the silent void engulfing the room.

"But you know what? Aftah dat, Ma didn't bring guys home for Christmas no more. Sure, her snobby pain-in-da-butt boyfriend tried to get himself invited, but we wouldn't let him. Ma didn't put up much of a fight about it, either. Maybe she finally got that Christmas was a fam'ly thing, not some "fam'ly and a random fancy-pants guy Ma met at the park" thing. But it was nevah completely da same, ya know? Not without my dad. Hell, I know he wasn't exactly my biological fatha', but he'll always be a dad to me, and-" The young Bostonian quickly bit the inside of his cheek, shutting himself up. Deep inside, he knew that he already talked too much, even by his extremely low standards.

Then Scout folded himself back into the couch, finally realizing that this Christmas was far worse than the one he had just spoken about. A small chuckle echoed through the room.

"You cawl that a bad Christmas, mate?" the marksman sneered. "That wos a picnic compared to some Oi 'ad."

"That Christmas story was weak! If you're going to tell a story, do it right! Say it with spirit, maggot! That was downright embarrassing!" the Soldier stood up from his seat. Suddenly, all eyes were pointed at him.

"What?" Jane Doe scratched the back of his neck, scoping the room and acknowledging his teammate's intrigued gazes.

"Why don't you tell a story den? Think you're so cool, helmet head?" Scout scoffed.

"Yesss, please, Soldier. It's not like we have something better to do than to listen to your incoherent patriotic drivel," Spy said sarcastically, lifting his head up to the cracked ceiling and scattering some cigarette ashes on the floor.

"You want a story? Fine then!" he clenched his fist determinately.

"Now, pay attention, maggots! I will tell you a story that will make your blood boil! I will tell you a story that will have you jump in your seat with excitement! I will tell you a story so awesomely patriotic and amazing you will want to chew your own foot off! And I am going to tell it to you…" he made a short dramatic pause;

"Right now."

"Please don't," Sniper begged. But it was too late. The Soldier had already cleared his throat to speak.

"Listen up, maggots! The year was 1948…"

* * *

.

.

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**Reader: **Why does this way of storytelling look so familiar?

**Me: **Well, I was greatly inspired by Giovanni Boccaccio's _Decameron_. It's a pre-renaissance allegory, whose frame story depicts 100 stories told by ten young people, over the course of ten days. They escaped to Florence, trying to save themselves from the Black Death. Having nothing to do, they amuse themselves by telling stories. In my stroy, the mercenaries find themselves in a similar situation. The difference here being that they tell stories from their own lives, as opposed to Boccaccio's stories whose plots were borrowed from stories he had heard before. Though Boccaccio's stories mostly revolve around sex, as a means of promoting it in that era's prudish society, I have decided to stray from that subject, as it is frowned upon in this T rated fandom.  
Does that answer your question?

**Reader: **...

**Me: **...Basically my old fic with Christmas thrown in at the last minute.

**Reader: **Oh my God, you're using up old stuff! *gasp* Oh, I am _so_ unfollowing this story.

**Me: **Really? You want to leave that soon? *bribes with cupcake*

**Reader:** ...I'm leaving after the next chapter. *munch*

**Me: **_Suuure. Suuure you aaaaare..._


	3. A Slightly Quieter Night

**Reader**: The title is stupid._  
_

**Me: **I know. I wanted something else, but '_It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like a Nazi Invasion'_ was too long of a chapter title.

**Reader: **Is there a Nazi invasion?

**Me: **Kinda.

**Reader:** I honestly couldn't care less. Now bring on the stupidity!

* * *

_Somewhere near Poland, Christmas Eve, 1948_

It wasn't supposed to be like this. This mission was supposed to be easy, four friends, going on a full-on Nazi killing spree. Finding Poland was the hard part. The actual fighting was supposed to be a cakewalk. But as Mr. Jane Doe faced his most fearsome opponent yet, the giant four-armed Nazi rising 300 feet up into the sky, he realized that this battle would be a difficult one.

"Stay close to me, Private Wilson!" he commanded to his companion, bringing him closer to him. His other two companions at war, Sergeant Pepper and Colonel Mustard were off on a battle of their own, trying to overpower a horde of Nazis still lurking in Poland.

There was nothing as intimidating as Polish Nazis. Nothing a fearsome as the marijuana smoking, at sea-level living, tulip picking, clog wearing, windmill building Polish Nazis. And the most intimidating one of them was waving his arms menacingly towards Doe. Doe took one look at the menace and turned to his companion. He took a deep breath before he spoke to Wilson, throwing away the thought that he would probably never see him again.

"Now listen here, private! You have already done me proud just by being here today! The mere fact you located Poland in this God forsaken place some people call Europe is astonishing! I say you lunge for the Nazi bastard first! Do me proud, private!"

He saluted Wilson, a single tear in his eye. His companion didn't even blink. Instead, he flew straight for the Nazi, wanting to take him down with one powerful strike. But, alas, one of the menace's hands struck him. It sent Wilson whooshing through the thick December air, and landing in the North Sea. Doe blinked heavily as he saw his companion floating away, unable to swim and unable to move. Doe cursed at the wretched abomination, still swinging its arms around. The brave American ran to aid his friend, drifting hopelessly further and further.

"Wilson!" he cried, but his comrade gave out no response.

"Wilson! Don't leave me! Wilson!" The American got down on all fours, slamming his fist against the cold, snowy ground. The snow accumulated between his fingers, and his fist was turning blue. He cried out for his friend, who was now completely gone. A small tear appeared in the American's eye.

"Wilson! I-I'm sorry Wilson! Don't desert me, God damn you! You're better than that, Wilson! Wilson!"

After calling for his companion, the brave American rose up to his feet, ignoring the swishing of the ocean and the soft voices coming from the local children, singing Christmas carols. It did not feel like Christmas that day. Losing a friend like that was unholy, but it wouldn't let Jane Doe give up on his goal to defeat that wretched Nazi scum of the Earth. Without thinking, he grabbed one grenade firmly in his hand. He could see the monster, not far away from him. He adjusted his helmet and grinded his teeth.

"Wilson didn't die in vain, you bastard! He died bravely, fighting like a man!" Jane Doe raised his arm up high, bringing the grenade up over his head. He ran towards the monster, not letting the confused looks coming from the unworthy civilians disturb him. A primal shriek echoed through the land, just before the brave Soldier pulled the pin, destroying everything in sight.

"This one is for you, Wilson!"

* * *

"That stunt of mine resulted in 14 civilian casualties and a bruised toe. It later turned out that I was actually attacking a windmill. I was too intoxicated to notice. Back then, all U.S. army men were drinking heavily, trying to keep their strength up. I…I still remember the bill for all the property damage we had done. I still keep it among my medals." The Soldier then turned to the Scout.

"Hear that, boy?" he asked, his mouth forming a self-righteous grin. The other mercenaries looked at him, their mouths agape.

"Zat 'appened in 1948, _non_? I'm quite sure that ze war was over by then." The Spy tilted his head to the side in confusion.

"Oi'm sorry, but that place you were descroibin' doesn't sound loike Poland, mate."

"And what the hell do you possibly know about Poland, you dirty hippie!?" Soldier snapped.

"As inaccurate as that story may be, ah find it kinda sad that you had to lose a buddy like that. On Christmas, even…" The Texan put his guitar down on the floor and sat properly on the windowsill. The Soldier shook his head while looking down at the dusty floorboards.

"I admit, it was tough. God bless old Willie, wherever he is!" he looked up into the sky, saluting the heavens. He wondered if it would make a difference if he had mentioned that Wilson was actually a volleyball with large drawn-on eyes that he found on the ground in Maine and took with him, hoping that it could lead him to Poland. Surprisingly, the volleyball had more sense of direction than Jane and all of his teammates combined.

"Okay, I admit it. Dat Christmas sucked more than mine," Scout said reluctantly, avoiding eye contact with the American. The Soldier looked at the Bostonian, his eyes wide open.

"What are you talking about, boy? It was amazing!" He stood up straight and began punching the air, emphasizing every word excitedly.

"The fighting! The drama! The property damage! The wonders of Poland at war!"

"_"Warte mal,_" the Medic interrupted the burly American; "You enjoyed fighting on Christmas back then? But you protest against fighting tomorrow?"

"That is different, Fritz! I don't like being _forced_ to fight! It is supposed to come naturally! Like breathing, or shouting, or beating up hippies, or…."

"Well if you enjoyed it, it don't count!" Scout stood up, sneering; "We're talking about crappy Christmases 'ere! If we were to tawk 'bout awesome Christmases, I woulda said a storeh a hundred times bettah den wat I ahready told!"

The group was staring at the Soldier again, reluctantly agreeing with the boy. The Soldier's tone was now slightly more mocking than before.

"Well, I'd hate to disappoint you, maggot, but I my life has been pretty much ideal. The fighting, the wars, the respect I got from my fellow soldiers… It was all because of my true valor and strong American grit. We had it tough, but we didn't complain! Hell, we loved every single moment of it! I remember this one time…" He stood up and brought his fist close to his chest, a noticeable gleam of pride appearing in his eye. He rambled on for about ten minutes. Sadly, the details of this story still remain unknown, as nobody even bothered to listen to it. The Soldier soon sat back down on his chair, concluding his riveting tale. The mercs couldn't have cared less about it.

"…and soon, the old puppy was no more. Luckily, Wilson saved the plutonium supply. And we were grateful for having him with us. Man, I loved that old gritty bastard. Well only last Christmas we had a gathering to celebrate the ten years after his death."

The Spy raised his index finger to speak.

"Wouldn't that be closer to twenty years, Soldier?"

The American stared at the Frenchman, blinking heavily while trying to solve a problem resembling high level math to him. After almost three minutes of this, the Spy slouched back and lit up a cigarette, hoping that the spicy savory scent would bring him out of this misery.

"_Je suis entouré par des idiots,"_ he muttered. The Soldier continued to ponder the time that has passed since Wilson's death for a while, before finally coming to a conclusion that it didn't matter and that the Spy was a stupid French fruitcake who just smokes all the time and does nothing productive. With that thought in mind, he continued his story.

"A man of such great courage deserved a great memorial. It was held at my roommate's castle, last year…"

* * *

_Wherever the hell Merasmus' castle is, Christmas Eve, 1969  
(I'm guessing Maine- editor Bill)_

Merasmus the Magician's plan to take over Christmas as well as Halloween was foiled as he saw Jane Doe sitting in the dining room, holding up his rocket launcher. He was seated at the top of the rectangular hardwood dining table, a short, very frightened delivery boy by his side. The boy seemed to be shivering. The other chairs were empty, reserved for Jane's invited guests, presumably his old army pals. Merasmus grunted, covering his face with his long indigo robe and trying to sneak past the American. Jane Doe, however, spotted him just as the magician grasped the door knob, about to exit his estate.

"Where are you off to, skull-head?" asked Jane, eating a crispy rib the young delivery boy brought minutes ago. Merasmus regretted the fact that he didn't teleport to leave this wretched place. The grumpy magician casually looked over to the makeshift Christmas tree; a small, witling potted plant, planted in a can of tomato soup. A bullet cartridge was on top of it.

"If you must know, I'm off to invade all of humanity and take over Christmas once and for all. That way, I shall rule the Earth world come all three most famous holidays; Halloween, Christmas and St. Patrick's Day. That will show that pathetic Grinch who's boss!" He clenched his fist tightly, foaming at the mouth with fury.

"That's great, Mary."

"Do not call me Mary, mortal! I am the great Merasmus, the master of darkness and light, the ruler of life and death! And as soon as I turn that door knob, the world will rue ever doubting my striking skills at wizardry! I shall bring doom to them, arriving on a tide of blood!" he raised his bony arms up, victoriously.

"Whatever you say, Mary."

The magician frowned, folding his arms and bending over hopelessly. The proper cartoonish sound effect for this action would be similar to that of playing a short note on a tuba.

"Can… Can I go now?" asked the freckled delivery boy, glancing over some "Guns and Haircuts" magazines piled up on the table.

"You want your fifteen percent tip, don't you?" Jane looked down at him, discouragingly. The young boy bowed his head in shame.

"Y-y…yes, Sir."

"Then stop complaining and eat those ribs! That is an order!"

Merasmus raised an eyebrow as the young frightened boy picked up a rib and dipped it in mustard sauce, only to be yelled at by Jane.

"No, you useless maggot! That piece does not go well with that sauce!"

Merasmus then looked around the room, and saw something glued on the brick walls; many magazine articles and bits of string. Holiday décor, one might assume. The magician shook his head and pulled out a chair, a groan escaping his ancient throat.

"Will there be any other guests attending this pitiful gathering?"

"'course there will be! You just have to give them some time to get here. The party only started two hours ago!"

Merasmus looked back at the young delivery boy. '_Help me,' _he mouthed to the magician. At that point, Merasmus felt overwhelmed with pity. He sat on the cheap wooden chair, grabbing a single thin rib.

"Alright, Jane," he said with a mix of irritation and boredom; "Pass the barbecue sauce."

"Well now it's a party!" Jane exclaimed enthusiastically, shooting his rocket launcher through the wall. Merasmus shook his head at the gaping hole, knowing that he would be the one to fix it.

"Merry Christmas, you unbearable mortal."

"Merry Christmas, Mary."

"Can…c-can I go _now_, Sir?"

* * *

"…and that's how the memorial went. Nobody ever hosted a better memorial for Wilson. Then again, nobody ever hosted a memorial for Wilson. Though it only lasted for fifteen minutes because old skull-head had to leave, and we ended up strangling the delivery boy for eating the last rib without asking, it was still the best Christmas I've ever had."

The proud American looked around the room, seeing his teammates exchange sorrowful glances. They all looked back at the Soldier.

"What?" he asked, feeling rather uncomfortable. At that point, the Pyro walked up to Jane Doe, squeezing him tightly. The Soldier responded by making a series of twitches and shoves, trying to pry the firebug away from him.

"Get off me you… you unearthly maggot!" Despite this, the firebug was secured tightly to him, occasionally letting out a small sigh.

"He's loike a kicked puppy, isn't he?" asked the Sniper, referring to Jane. The group nodded. Suddenly, the Scout looked up at the firebug, who was finally shaken off the burly American.

"Hey, Py! Wat was your worst Christmas?"

The Pyro looked around the base, before pointing at itself, timidly.

"Yeah. I kinda wanna know how your worst Christmas went."

The Spy snorted in the background.

"Are you kidding me?! Do I need to leesten to every seengle one of you talking about your pathetic, whiney, miserable-"

The Pyro pulled out a lighter and held it dangerously close to Spy's face, making him gulp. In the Pyro's mind, he was only offering him a piece of candy, hoping that the Spy would reconsider. However, the big, burning, orange candy seemed to frighten the Spook a little bit. The rest of the team snickered as the Frenchman mumbled.

"Z-Zhen again… I…I would be honored to…to…hear eet. Just-Just… p-p-put zat away from my expensive suit."

The Pyro flicked off the lighter and began talking as soon as a sigh of relief escaped the Frenchman.

"Hmm-khhm. Nhhm, thmms hhms hmm htmmry fhrmm wmmem Hmm whmms hmm hlmmlthmm khmmd. Hmm hmml bhmmgn hnm whmmtm Chmmristmms hmmvenmng…"

* * *

.

.

.

**Reader: **Well, that sucked.

**Me: **How exactly?

**Reader: **Well, um... ugh... well... you... you wrote it!

**Me: **Really? Well then. I suppose you want to quit reading this now...

**Reader: **Indeed I do. After the Pyro. And then I'm done.

**Me: **Admit it, you love it.

**Reader: **Shut up.


	4. Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire

_?_ _? ?_

This story is about a young child. We won't consider this child a member of either sex. And what's more, as the story progresses, we won't be considering it human. This particular event took place a long time ago, on Christmas Eve. The child was with its family, its mother and sibling. Maybe the younger sibling was sitting in the child's home, playing on the floor. The sibling's name might have been Charlie, or Charlotte. The truth was, the child we will be talking about today had no recollection of what its sibling looked like. But it did recollect this day. It did recollect the present it got from its mother, Monica. Or was that Monique? Mona, maybe. It was presented to the child in a colorful box, wrapped in decorative paper with a red candy cane pattern. The young child remembered the bright smile on the mother's face as she presented her child with a present. She looked so happy, and kept spinning around the room, reaching her arms out to the heavens. A Christmas song played on the antique wooden radio tucked on a bookshelf just above the brick fireplace. The child remembered the sound coming from it, as it tore up the package excitedly.

_I'm dreaming of a white Christmas…_

The child caught a glimpse of a card glued on the wrapping paper. '_Merry Christmas, my dear L!'_ it said.

_L…_

The child's name started with an L. Maybe it was Lisa. It could've been Louis. It could have been Laszlo, Louise, Laura and everything in between. Something made the child forget its own name. Maybe it was from all the food mother had given it. Its mother's cooking had a strange affect on it. All those lovingly prepared dishes had a special spice sprinkled on top.

This was a spice mother used in all her dishes, from mashed potatoes and spinach to warm blueberry pies. Whenever the child asked her about the spice, she would dotingly explain that it was love in a powdered form.

_Love in a powdered form…_

That was funny.

Some doctors insisted on calling it Valium.

The child was under its influence even as it was opening the package. Its mother danced around the warm, glowing room. She spread her arms out and danced around the infant playing happily on the floor.

"_Everything here is beautiful…" _she would say, before fixing a slightly crooked golden ornament on their large Christmas tree, decorated with many glowing candles, fixed up on the branches with wax. The mother loved the flame they emitted; the fire comforted her.

She would dance around the apartment, singing happily. She was also keen on eating the spice she used to make her children's meals. She would eat a lot more than they would, though. The spice never bothered her; if anything, she was a lot calmer than before. She was a lot happier than before she moved in with her children into this cozy apartment. And, she was a lot more at ease than when her husband died in a car crash, earlier this spring.

What her eldest child saw in that box that day changed its life forever. It was the most wonderfully magical thing the child has ever laid eyes upon. It was so adorably amazing; a simple Baloonicorn. It came in a box, marked _"The Municipal Ombudsman of-"_

_Of…_

Though the child couldn't remember it now, it was of some magical fairytale land. The child rummaged through the box and found a small deflated masterpiece. Immediately, the child popped the small rubber cap open and began blowing it up, as its mother danced around the room, the small infant in her arms. The song was still playing on the radio.

_With every Christmas card I write…_

The Baloonicorn was inflated quickly. It floated up in the air and began flying around the child, much to its amusement. It did a spin around the Christmas tree, tussling the decorations and flying incredibly close to the candles. It flew around the child's mother, making her dress twirl. She didn't seem to notice.

Suddenly, the Baloonicorn flew over the child and looked at it. The child could see its pet clearly; the pink surface of the inflated balloon unicorn, its creamy white horn and small black eyes. It spoke to L.

"_You know what? I really like those candles on the Christmas tree."_

The child nodded. It really liked those, too. Without thinking, the child stood up and walked over to the green, highly flammable Christmas ornament. The Baloonicorn floated above it. The warm flames from the candles made the room look golden and gleaming.

"_Those candles make the room look so pretty…"_

The child grasped one warm wax candle, bringing it closer to it. L ran one finger through the rising flame but felt nothing. It was mesmerized by the beauty of fire. The fascination with it was unhealthy, unnatural, unearthly…

Almost inhuman.

"_It would be a shame if only the tree looked so pretty. You know what?" Baloonicorn squealed; "If you want, this entire house could be pretty. So very pretty…"_

"_So very gosh darn pretty…"_

It took one movement, one twitch towards the tree, and it was already ablaze. The warm, yellowish flame first attacked the base of the tree, and soon moved up to the big shining star on top. The child looked at the fire, engulfing the wood and letting out a pleasant smell of charcoal. The playful, squiggling flames soon caught the taupe curtains and spread across the room. The figure consisting of a burning Christmas tree and a pair of silk curtains looked like an angel. The child smiled happily, Baloonicorn floating by the child's side. It seemed like its mother paid no interest to what was happening.

"_Everything here is beautiful!" _she exclaimed once again, placing her younger child on the floor. She hugged her arms and closed her eyes, feeling comfortably warm. She didn't see the flames creeping towards the wooden radio right behind her.

_May your days be merry and bright,  
And may all your Christmases be white…_

The soothing voice dropped down significantly as the fire feasted on the wooden base. It was spreading high and wide, capturing everything in its sight. The child stared at it, mesmerized. It never knew how powerful flames could be.

The mother's dress caught fire, but she was too numb to feel a thing. Her child didn't warn her, for it was too captivated by the flaming hot force that circled around it. It was already burning down some furniture, a television set, and the child's siblings.

Oh, that's right. There were two siblings. Charlie _and _Charlotte. They were the child's younger twin siblings.

They burned like wooden dolls.

The mother didn't seem to notice her children's festive clothes and innocent faces being burnt to unrecognizable ashes. She was comfortably numb, and didn't let out a sound even when the flames caught her long, flowing hair. The flames burnt her scalp, and her face melted in front of her child's very eyes.

It was eerie.

It was frightening.

It was so remarkably beautiful.

"_Everything here is beautiful!" _she said in a mild tone, just before she hit the ground, clutching the burnt remains of her cheeks. Her face seemed to melt, seep down her neck and uncover the tender crimson muscle and charred tissue of her once beautiful face. Her eyes were red, bitten by the dense smoke whipping through the room. The child stared.

The child smiled.

* * *

Just ten minutes later, the child found itself sitting on the cold snowy pavement. It held its deflated Baloonicorn in its small, charred arms. It couldn't go back to its burned apartment, so it was forced to stay on the cold pavement until morning. Fire was remarkable, but it would soon evaporate and only leave ashes behind. The cold would stay longer.

And how very cold it was. The child would never forget it.

Fire had a comfortable warmth, a friendly color that made the child jump for joy. There was nothing beautiful or fascinating about the freezing cold grayish sludge the child was sitting on. It failed to see how people might enjoy seeing this repulsive festive slush every year. The child shivered and wringed its charred hands to keep warm. It wanted fire; it needed fire. Even though the flames that caught it left their marks, the child wanted them back. The child was shivering on the cold pavement. A group of carolers came up to it, and soon fled in terror, seeing its disfigured face. The young child didn't care about them. It desperately needed something to keep it warm.

A car whooshed past the child, across a small puddle of sludge and melt snow. The icy cold water splashed the child. It screamed painfully. The water was burning it, weighing its clothes down. It restrained the child. The evil, evil water wasn't as free and liberating as the colorful, joyous fire was. The child sobbed quietly. Its mouth arched downwards, and its small eyes filled themselves with tears. The salty, burning water ran down its cheeks, and the child found this more sickening than anything. The mere thought of having water drip out of its eyes…

Why was it able to create something it hated so much?

Not even its beloved Baloonicorn's pleasant smile could comfort the child. The already grotesque grimace was now turning blue with frostbite. The child sat there for hours, not moving an inch. It wanted to leave, but had nowhere to go.

The child couldn't have a home without fire, but in the end, it was fire that took away its home.

At the break of dawn, a Good Samaritan couple found the child laying in the sludge, its clothes soaking wet and a deflated balloon grasped tightly in its frostbitten hands. Its face was bloated and blue, as if it had been whipped by the unforgiving snow. They cared not for the child's appearance; they only cared for its safety. They took it home with them, dragging its cold, stiff body through the heavily decorated streets. Through the foggy unconsciousness, the child could hear Christmas carols. They mocked it.

When it finally woke up, the child found itself in a small, cozy home. It was heated, and the child immediately felt better. The warmth was coming from the couple's brick fireplace. The child observed the squiggly, happy flames before it came up to the fire. It put its inflatable toy by its side and brought its palms closer to the flames. It didn't care whether this was his true home or not.

Home was where the fire was.

* * *

After the Pyro had told its tale, only disturbing to it because of the cold it had to endure, the group was left slightly nervous.

"Holy. Shit!" said the Scout after a couple of seconds of uncomfortable silence.

"Sorry I asked."

"Eye knew the wee firebug woz disturbed, but I dinnoe 'ow mooch," the Demoman exclaimed and hastily opened another bottle of Scrumpy.

The Pyro shrugged and sat on the floor, gazing into the distance. The RED team members listened to the deafening silence of their base, occasionally looking through the window. The surface of the desert was dry and lifeless.

Almost as if it had been scorched.

"Ah got you fellers a story," said the Engineer, half anxious to break the silence and half excited to tell his tale. The group looked over to the Texan, feeling relieved that this day wouldn't end on that ghastly story they had just heard.

"Please tell," Heavy said, looking at the firebug scoot over to the Texan. In all honesty, he didn't want that… thing near him.

"Wot's it about?" Sniper asked from the comfort of his seat.

"Well, I reckon a fine fam'ly story might bring the mood up a bit. There's also a bit about me almost clobberin' mah son-in-law to death," the Texan said with a smile.

"As long as it's cheery," Scout said, sitting up straight. They all turned their heads to the one person always skeptical of listening to these tales. The Spy didn't let out a snappy this time. He fidgeted around his cigarette case, flicking the small silver lighter with his thumb. He noticed his teammates looking at him.

"Well? Any comment, crouton?" Soldier sneered.

"As long as eet gets my mind off the 'orrors I 'ave 'eard, I'm fine with ze laborer's story." With that, the Spy took a long drag on his cigarette, which seemed to calm his jittery nerves. As he let out a small puff, he found himself in a seeming state of relaxation. But this time it was different. The tale he had just heard made more of an impact on him then he thought. As he was exhaling, letting out a grey gust of nicotine and tar, he heard something in the distance, which might have been relaxing, if the Spy knew where the sound was coming from. The noise was familiar, hair-raisingly so.

_Pré-Far... beyond the fields... get him in the back next time... go on now...  
Make a wish, frère ._

The same sentence, sounding like a cheery tune, echoed through his head. The Spy blinked heavily, and the eerie voice disappeared into nothingness. This only agitated him more, and he turned to the Engineer, eager to get his mind off the strange and confusing audile mirage. He kept his calm expression, but his heart was now beating wildly, and it didn't stop even after the Engineer cleared his throat to start his tale.

"Alrightie, then," Engineer clasped his arms together, an action he always did before telling a story to his younger daughter. "Now, this happened not too far back. Last year, when we all _did_ get our Christmas leave, I went to visit mah family in Bee Cave. It started normally. The fam'ly came 'round, my wife was cookin' up a storm… Ya know, regular stuff." The Engineer looked down to the floor with a small, ironic smile.

"I had no idea that it would later turn into the worst Christmas of mah life."


	5. Let It Snow

**Reader:** That last chapter wasn't scary at all.

**Me: **Really? So why are you laying down, curled up in the fetal position?

**Reader: **Because I'm comfortable this way, alright?! Now then, what's this story about?

**Me:** Just your average Texan family, the fear of losing a family member and being shunned from the family yourself.

**Reader: **That sounds good...

**Me: **It is also over 8000 words long.

**Reader: **NOOOOOOOOOOOO! Why, Tokyo, why?

**Me:** Because I'm a sociopath. Now shut up and enjoy my work of really dull art.

* * *

_Bee Cave, Texas, December 24__th__, 1969_

Christmas time was always a busy period for the Conagher family. The guests had to be welcomed with open arms, the food had to be immaculately prepared, the decorations had to be festive, yet not tacky, and everybody had to be jolly at all times.

This year was no exception. The biggest house in Green Lane was hosting a Christmas party. The biggest house belonged to the Conagher household, and the party implied two days of something resembling a family reunion. The 24th of December was the so-called "preparation day", when all the food had to be cooked and all the liquor locked away from grandma. The first guests had already arrived; Dell's parents, along with their presents for Sarah and Pepper, and Irene's mother along with her company she brought over. They were Ginny (a bottle of gin), Jack (a bottle of Jack Daniels), Johnny (a bottle of Johnny Walker), and Sherry (a bottle of tequila). The guests have been immediately secluded in the crystal liquor cabinet in the living room, much to Irene's mother's discomfort.

Other family members were arriving either later that day or on Christmas morning. Two extra non-family members were invited as well, Pepper's boyfriend Mikey, and her friend from Boston she met during her brief stay there. This only meant one thing for the lady of the house.

They needed more food.

"Okay!" Irene clasped her hands together loudly, marching across the sterile white kitchen tiles and making her way to a large turkey propped up on a wooden board and ready to be gutted. Her 19-year-old, Pepper, was looking for some butter in the deep, dark crevasses of the refrigerator, while 8-year-old Sarah was squeezing a pair of lemons. Her mother stomped around the kitchen, pointing at each foodstuff being prepared at the moment.

"Lemons are squeezing, nuts are roasting, apples are baking, batter is setting, guests are talking, Ah am panicking…" she huffed and fluttered her hands close to her face. She rummaged through a small kitchen drawer in search of a wooden spoon. After pulling it out with an air of triumph, she realized that she didn't need it to gut a turkey. Promptly after putting it back in the messy drawer, she remembered that she still needed it to stir the nuts. Sarah was talking about the casting for her upcoming school play while her mother searched through the drawer, a string of muffled, watered-down curses leaving her mouth.

"So," began the little girl, oblivious to her mother's hyperventilating; "The role sheet for our school play came out. Ah got the title role."

Irene pulled out the wooden spoon once again, exhaling in relief. She made her way to the roasted nuts and tossed them around, enjoying their crackling. She didn't attempt to hide her enthusiasm about her daughter's first taste of stardom.

"Honey, Ah'm so happy for you! The title role! You must be thrilled, sweetie!"

Sarah wasn't.

"Mom, it's _Helen Keller_. Ah don't have any lines! Ah feel betrayed. The whole thing is a big, fat pile of-"

Irene looked at her daughter coldly, and Sarah quickly returned to squeezing the last lemon and averting her eyes from her mother.

"…poo."

Irene's husband flew into the kitchen, opening the double sided door widely. They flapped as they returned to their previous position, and this made Irene huff in annoyance. She saw her mother pull at the handle of the liquor cabinet while Dell's parents were watching television. Her husband walked up to Sarah and grabbed her by the waist, hoisting her up on the counter.

"Hey, kiddo!" he tickled his giggling daughter. "How are the three best chefs in the world?"

"Busy!" responded a voice from the refrigerator. The voice soon obtained a bodily form, as Dell's daughter Pepper closed the heavy door and placed a stick of butter, milk and a carton of eggs in front of her mother. The nineteen-year-old then instructed Sarah to climb off the counter and took a knife along with seven carrot sticks. Irene frowned at her daughter.

"Pepper, it's Christmas for God's sake! Would it kill you to at least try gussying up?"

Pepper looked up from the small orange circles she made, her thin red brows creating a frown.

"Well, sorry, mom. I don't see the point of getting all dressed up in skimpy little dresses and fixing my hair up with tons of hairspray and putting on my make-up with a spatula!"

"Ah ain't talkin' about spatulas, Ah'm talkin' 'bout combing your gosh darn hair one in a blue moon!" Irene gestured to her daughter before beginning to prepare the poultry. She did have a point.

Her daughter's style was different than the one she sported before she went to Boston. Now it consisted of floral skirts, wide, unflattering shirts, many hairclips and wool socks. Irene once described it as the _"I give up"_ look. Though Dell and Irene appreciated the fact that their daughter was dressing up more modestly, the fact that bothered them was that she now looked more conservative than her own grandmother.

"Well, the guests are doin' fine," Dell announced; "Though, Irene, your mother is eating a lot of those weird tasting chocolates with that chocolate gooey liquor." He pulled a grimace to emphasize the horrible taste they had. Irene huffed but didn't look away from her turkey.

"Don't worry, hun, nobody can get drunk off those. Believe me, I tried."

"How's the cooking going?" Dell asked, casually looking over his wife's shoulder.

"Well, Ah still have to put the bird in the oven, bake an apple pie, caramelize some apples, glaze the roast and serve the figgy pudding all in under… seven hOurs," her voice broke.

"Irene, are… are you cryin'?"

"No, no…" she lied, wiping off a single tear off her face.

"Ah'm just exhausted, is all."

Dell carefully placed his gloved hand on Irene's shoulder. This was supposed to soothe her, but it only made her flinch. She wasn't used to feeling icy cold metal where her husband's warm hand should have been. He had explained it to her before, the work accident and a very convenient solution that appeared to scare his wife to no end. He decided to keep it gloved, for her sake. However, actually feeling the cold, listless metal was a harsh wake-up call, telling her that her husband wasn't the same anymore. She jerked her shoulder quickly, and they both felt a short, uncomfortable buzz flying through the room. The moment of silence was interrupted as Sarah walked out of the room, bringing out four glasses of lemonade.

"Why don't you ask Pepps to get started on one of those dishes?" asked Dell. Pepper and Irene looked at each other before they started laughing like hyenas.

"What? What'd Ah say?" Dell stretched his arms out, looking for an answer.

Irene cackled before finally managing to form an eloquent sentence.

"Pepper can't cook."

"It's true!" Pepper agreed after dumping some chopped vegetables into a ceramic bowl;

"I'm a master at chopping, slicing, dicing, pureeing, grating, peeling, kneading, crushing, stirring and, oddly enough, flambéing."

"But if you get her near a stove," Irene interrupted; "She can burn water. Honestly! The girl is a lost cause." Irene then returned to preparing the turkey.

"Aw, yiss," he recalled; "The Conaghers haven't been too skilled 'round the stove. Now the grill! That's a whole other story. Now, you get me a grill and an animal, and Ah swear, any animal the Lord put on this earth, and Ah will give a feast you'd only dream of."

He ended this brief history of his family's culinary skills with a smile. Irene huffed and looked out of the window. Their large backyard was covered with a blanket of pristine snow.

"I doubt you can grill anythin' this time-a year. 'Till then, this party's gonna rely heavily on my cooking. And don't pretend you're some kind-a master chef, either! The only reason you aren't doin' nuttin is because you're even more hopeless than her!"

At that moment, the doorbell went off, and the short, annoying buzz flew through their ears. Pepper slowly stepped out of the kitchen and into the dining room.

"I'll get that. Call me if you need anythin' sliced, diced or _julienned_."

The kitchen door swung behind her, and her parents found themselves in the kitchen, alone. Dell looked wistfully out of the window. Irene noticed this.

"What's wrong, Dell?"

Her husband shook his head, as if he was trying to rid himself of a foul thought.

"Irene? Do ya think that… Pepps is actin' a bit more…timid than she used to? Ya know. 'Fore Ah got that job at New Mexico?"

"Ah think it's nice. She ain't as flashy as she used to be." Irene looked at her husband with a dissatisfied frown.

"What? There a problem with that?"

"It's unnatural, is all. I mean, you jus' told her she couldn't cook and she didn't make a scene 'bout it. Hell, she agreed!"

"You're exaggerating. She just…grew up." Irene pulled out a slimy gizzard out of the poultry and formed a crooked grimace. Dell watched her prepare the evening's _pièce de résistance_ with a small smile on his face. He watched the bright white light shine across his wife's perfectly clear face. For some reason, she managed to look stunning even as she was slaving in the fiery hot kitchen. She wiped off a single drop of sweat from her brow. Dell leaned against the counter, propping his right elbow against it and leaning his head on his cold mechanical hand. He watched Irene pluck at the bird for a few more seconds.

"Do ya know that you've never looked sexier?" he asked, looking into her sparkling brown eyes.

"Shut up."

The sound that ensued resembled the mating call of the Eastern Channel Billed Cuckoo. This could either mean that Grandma was getting brutally murdered, or that Pepper's Bostonain friend, Cindy, had arrived early. Irene brushed off the entrails against her less-than white apron before accompanying Dell into the living room. His parents were looking at the new guest judgingly, while Pepper was enthusing about seeing her.

Dell cleared his throat, hoping to get the guest's attention. After Pepper pried herself off her friend, she gestured towards her.

"Ma, Daddy, this is Cindy. I talked 'bout her."

"Hi," Cindy waved, smiling from ear to ear. Irene looked closely at the peppy young blonde, her luggage consisting of one bootlegged _Louis Vuitton_ handbag. This Cindy, whoever she was, had a remarkable gift for making a stuffed parka look skanky.

"Can I come in now, I'm freezin' mah ass off!" she exclaimed loudly before tossing her bag in Pepper's arms. She first walked up to Dell. Pepper scurried behind her.

"Uh…yeah, Cindy? This is my dad, Dell."

"Howdy!" he greeted, stretching his hand out for a friendly handshake. Cindy interpreted this as an invite for a lengthy squeeze.

"You Texan guys talk soooo cute!" she snorted. Pepper managed to pry Cindy off her father while looking at her mother's eye twitch angrily. She cleared her throat and started the introduction over.

"So yeah… My dad. Dell Conagher. A doctor in-."

Cindy widened her eyes and gasped.

"You's a doctah?" She turned her back to him, pulling down the collar of her shirt and exposing her spotted neck.

"I gawt did mole right 'ere and I wasn't sure if it was a mole or some kinda pimple, so-"

"PhD, sweetie!" Pepper pushed her friend towards her edgy mother; "PhD. My dad's a PhD."

"Is dat like a dentist?"

"N-n-never mind."

Cindy stood in front of Irene, who was looking at her wristwatch and tapping her foot. She did manage to form a forced welcoming smile.

"Howdy. Ah'm Pepper's mom, Irene."

"Holy shit." Cindy cursed, examining Irene's figure from head to toe before nodding approvingly.

"You're hot. Question!" she turned to Pepper; "How come your Ma's got dem Dolly Parton boobies, and you've got squat? I mean, you're like Pepper The Titless Wondah and you're Ma is like a Greek goddess, and-"

"Cindy!" Pepper snapped, giving apologetic looks to her mother. Irene, however, looked mad for letting Cindy stop talking.

"Well, I just don't see the fam'ly resemblance!" Cindy protested as Pepper pushed her away from her parents. On her way into the dining room, Cindy bumped into an older woman; a woman in her late sixties with her lifeless red hair strapped into a messy bun, yellowish skin and dull emerald green eyes. She stumbled and waved around the air with her empty flask. She positively reeked of alcohol.

"Irene!" she protested loudly in her strange Irish/Texan accent. "Where'd ya hoide mah booze?"

Irene sighed.

"Ah didn't hide it, mom. It's in the cupboard."

"Well git it oot! Ah need mah whisky fer me gin and tonic!"

Irene slapped her forehead in exhaustion.

"Whisky doesn't go in a gin and tonic, mom!"

"Whisky goes in everything!" she raised her arms in loud protest. Cindy looked at the unruly old woman, and then back at her shy granddaughter. Old woman, granddaughter. Old woman. Granddaughter. Repeat.

"Okay, _now_ I see the fam'ly resemblance!" Cindy exclaimed while pointing at the old woman. The old woman pointed her bony finger back at her.

"Ah don't like ya. You have any booze?"

Cindy raised her left eyebrow, a devilish grin on her face. She rummaged through her purse.

"Is tequila OK?"

"It'll do."

Pepper quickly pushed her friend over to Dell's parents, who remained unusually quiet. Irene's mother ran towards them, demanding her drink. Dell and Irene looked at their new houseguest.

"Well, Ah reckon she's… colorful," Dell shrugged, noticing that this woman resembled a certain obnoxious Bostonian back at the RED base. Irene shrugged.

"I dunno. Ah kinda like her."

"That's because she called you hot. Which you are!" he quickly added as Irene gave him an evil look only comparable to having a dozen daggers fly out of her eyes and straight into your soul. She shook her head and marched back into the kitchen with a sigh.

Dell looked around the house, trying to bask in the Christmas atmosphere. I soothing smell of pot-roast was coming from the kitchen. The Christmas tree was standing in a corner of the room, relatively close to the roaring fireplace. A couple of immaculately wrapped presents were already under it. The Christmas decorations were as tasteful as they could possibly be; a couple of bells here and there, a few red socks nailed above the fireplace, a wreath decorated with a large silk bow on each door. The white surface of the snow reflected the sunbeams, and they fell on the soft green carpet with a warm, silvery glow. Sarah was talking to her grandparents, Irene's mother was drinking lemonade at the dining room table, and Pepper and her friend drank eggnog, reminiscing about old times, quite loudly. Dell thought that nothing could ruin this Christmas.

But the day was still young.

"So," Cindy said through a gush of laughter after telling her hilarious story about her cab drive over to the Conagher household; "What have you been up to?"

"Aw, nothing." Pepper wiped off a single tear off her face, still clutching her stomach. "After I returned to Bee Cave, I've been pretty much…well, me. Jus' workin', and-."

"OOOH!" Cindy shrieked and jerked her hand excitedly. A small drop of eggnog fell on the carpet, and she tried to hide the impending stain with her right foot.

"Whatcha doin' now? Singin' 'round bars? Hotel lobbies?"

"No, no, no, I' done with that!" Pepper shook her head with a small chuckle.

"I'm…pretty much just a stay-at-home daughter."

Cindy tilted her head to the side, trying to enthuse about her friend's occupation. Sadly, she failed to do so.

"Dat's boring! Seriously, dat's boring as shit!"

"I know." Pepper bowed her head down before thinking of an appropriate response.

"So, what's up with you?"

"Well, after you quit that job you had in Boston," she looked around the room, hoping that nobody was eavesdropping; "The club pretty much died. It became the same as… any other club of its nature. I mean, without the singer, it's just a couple of horny guys sitting around pretty girls with daddy issues in awkward silence. Anyway, I quit working at it too, after film school. I tried to get a job as a film director or editor or something, but you know what?"

"People don't wanna hire retired hook-?"

"People DO NOT want to hire retired members of my last profession!" Cindy exclaimed, as if Pepper hadn't already guessed it. "So right now I'm a wedding photographer. It doesn't pay much, but oh well…" Cindy drank up her remaining drop of eggnog before turning to Pepper once more.

"So when do I meet your new guy?"

"Soon. He'll be here any minute now." They both look at the door, as if he was going to pop in that very second, a bouquet of red roses in each hand and an angel choir in the background.

This oddly did not happen.

"Well, is he as hot as your last guy?"

"No, but he ain't a moody prick like my last guy." Pepper frowned at her friend, who was twisting in her place seductively, propping her arms on the wooden chair they were standing next to.

"Mmmm, that last guy. I just wanna… unf! Ya know?" she bit her lip sexily.

"Uh-huh."

"I mean, I want to go down his chimney."

"Got it."

"I want to be on his naughty list…" Cindy giggled.

"Damn it, Cindy! I hate the guy, and I hate puns. Are you really mixing those two together and making them _seasonal?_"

"Let's say my right leg is Thanksgiving…" Cindy ignored her irritated friend and lifted up her right leg from the floor. Pepper huffed angrily.

"I swear, if you end that joke with something along the lines of _'between the holidays'_, I will cut you with a spoon!"

A normal person would have taken that threat as a warning and promptly shut up.

Cindy wasn't a normal person.

"_Pulling off his underpants, yanking off my ooooown! Underneath the mistletoe, I'll make your last guy mooooooan_!" Cindy screeched and clapped her palms together to the tune of _Jingle bells_. Pepper casually looked over to her dad and her grandparents, who were looking at her friend in shock and disgust.

"_Thaaaaaaat guy was hot, guy _was_ hot, and I want to touch his- _MMMMPH!"

At that moment, Cindy found her mouth shut tightly by Pepper's hand. The shy redhead looked towards her grandmother apologetically.

"Sorry, Nana. She's got syphilis… of the brain."

Pepper's grandmother looked at her son sitting next to her on the sofa. She sighed.

"Don't worry, dear. You've had worse guests."

With that remark, she looked over to Irene's mother, who was sitting at the dining room table and giving her eight-year-old granddaughter a lesson on mixing cocktails. Dell returned to talking to his father while still listening to his daughter's conversation in the distance.

"Man, you're no fun anymore!" Cindy said after she freed herself from the grip of Pepper's sweaty palm. Cindy looked at her best friend. She couldn't recognize her any more. The _Peppermint_ she knew before would have joined her in her sad attempt at singing a dirty Christmas tune. The Pepper Conagher standing before her was so…unbelievably boring.

"So, what's your new guy like?" Cindy asked, trying to clear her head.

"He's everything my last guy isn't." Pepper took Cindy's empty glass of eggnog and examined the small white stain on the carpet. She refused to look at her in the eye.

"He's smart, charming, sweet, thoughtful… Everything the last guy only wished he could be."

Cindy raised her eyebrow.

"So he ain't hot, den?"

Pepper refused to answer that question, but to Cindy, the answer was pretty clear. She didn't worry about Pepper leaving her to help her mom in the kitchen. She'll come to. She always comes to, because she can't stay mad at somebody forever, or even for more than ten minutes.

At least, the old Pepper couldn't.

Cindy paced around the house, looking for something else to do. Uninterestedly, she grabbed a glass of yellowish liquid from the wooden dining room table and brought it to her lips. After the first sip, it was clear that something was off about this drink.

This lemonade had whisky in it.

"No!" Sarah appeared from behind the table, after helping her drunken grandmother get up; "That's Gram's special lemonade!"

"Ah'll take that, miss!" the tipsy old woman hissed, snatching the glass. She took a small sip before lovingly patting Sarah's head. The little girl smiled proudly.

"You're getting better at making these, love! Next week, we're makin' ah dry martini!"

"Yippee!" Sarah shrieked ecstatically.

At that point, Cindy saw something. An opportunity. A hobby. A fresh talent and a free mind that she could mold until her friend finally decides to talk to her again.

"Hey…Sarah, is it?" Cindy cooed while lowering herself to the girl's height.

"You know what's the biggest problem with your sister?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

Sarah blinked.

"She's a two-dimensional character who bases her personality on the most influential male figure in her life at that point?"

"Besides that."

"…no."

"She forgot how to have fun! And I won't let that happen to you!" Cindy opened up her purse and rummaged through endless condoms, candy wrappers, phone numbers and one dollar bills. She finally picked up a small cardboard box.

"Now, your Gram, or howevah you cawl her, is teachin' you cocktail mixin'. Dat's good right now, but aunt Cindy can do bettah."

"How?"

With one quick move, Cindy opened up the small box. She poured the contents of it into her left hand, a stack of playing cards. She shuffled them in her hand, looking at Sarah the whole time. The girl seemed impressed with Cindy's shuffling skills.

"Right. The game is cawled blackjack…"

* * *

Dell grunted as he heard a faint knock on the door. There was only one person who constantly refused to use the doorbell and insisted on knocking all the time. And this person came early as well.

Irene will not be happy about this.

Dell decided not to disturb her and opened the door. A rush of cold air filled the room and he let the new guest inside. It was a scrawny ginger boy, shivering in a long, thin coat. His nose was red and puffy, and his teeth chattered. Dell shook his head.

"Ya know, Mikey," he began; "You really ought to get yourself a hat."

Dell looked at the boy's untamed red hair frozen on his scalp. Not wearing a hat was the biggest absurdity, back at his workplace. A hat was a sign of style and job efficiency. To not have one would be the biggest disgrace of all. The young boy sniffed, closing the door behind him.

"Thank you, sir. Ah will. Is-is Pepper here, maybe?"

"MIKEY!" Pepper rushed out of the kitchen, leaving a trail of flour behind her as she ran towards her boyfriend. She stretched her long arms out to greet him, screeching. This mostly irritated the other guests, Dell included. Mikey didn't seem to mind it. In fact, he found it endearing. Even more so when she finally grabbed him by the waist and began kissing his face.

"Hi-hi… Peppsie." Mikey muttered quietly.

"Hi." She responded, looking at his wide green eyes in a daze. She stepped back from him, noticing that she got flour all over his dark coat. She began slapping it nervously, trying to clean it.

Dell looked at the two lovebirds, which seemed equally nervous. He didn't understand why his daughter was dating this… this… worm. The boy had no personality of his own. He was in love with Pepper for as long as either of the three could remember, but his precious Pepps barely gave him a second of her time. However, merely two days after she returned from Boston, she began seeing him. They have been together for over a year, and Dell did not enjoy that one bit. Nevertheless, he couldn't say anything to them. Though he would often criticize Mikey behind his back, he tried his best to endure their relationship, hoping that it would end quickly.

However, it would later turn out that it would last, no matter how badly he wanted it not to.

Mikey slowly slipped off his coat and gave it to Pepper, quietly muttering something about washing his hands. Pepper embraced his jacket tightly, smiling the whole time. Dell rolled his eyes.

"Thanks for havin' me over, Mr. Conagher. I'm glad you consider me family," Mikey said to Dell.

"Frankly, Ah don't." Dell admitted. Not having anything to respond with, Mikey smiled nervously before leaving the room. Pepper stared at her dad for one intense second.

"Why do you have to be so mean to him?"

"Ah ain't mean to him! I just don't think of him as family, is all!" Dell defended himself.

"Well, I don't care! He is my boyfriend, and you're going to put that weird grudge, or whatever you have against him, aside!"

Dell huffed in protest and looked down to the floor. When he lifted his head up, he noticed that Pepper was still looking at him. She threw the coat in his arms before stepping one step closer to her dad with a menacing frown.

"Dell?" she asked to grab his attention; "Behave."

She hopped after her boyfriend, leaving Dell alone, clutching Mikey's coat. He wanted to rip it to shreds. Dell had absolutely no idea why he hated the boy so much, but he did know that, in some way, he was the reason his daughter had changed so drastically. He wringed the coat in his hands nervously, slowly making his way to the coat hanger. And then he felt it.

It couldn't be wrung.

It was a small, box-resembling object in the boy's left pocket.

Oh God.

Oh God, no.

Dell was usually a calm, collected Texan man. If something went wrong, he would keep quiet about it, until he faced the problem head-on. Then he would shoot it. It was the paradox of the Texan. Sometimes the most laid-back people could be the most ruthless killers. And sometimes the most collected and logical people, would find themselves frantically digging through the pockets of their daughter's boyfriend, looking for their worst fears.

And soon he found it. A small, almost insignificant black box. He carelessly tossed the coat on the floor. He wrapped his small fingers around the top half of the box and licked his lips nervously. A good father would be alright with this, heck, a good father would be thrilled by this. But, then again, how could he bear to give his daughter away to the man he couldn't even stand. He hastily opened the top half, praying that he was about to see a pair of earrings. A necklace, maybe. He would settle for a brooch or a bracelet. He would settle for any possible trinket.

But, oh please God, he didn't want it to be a…

He opened it, still hearing his heart beating wildly inside his brain.

A ring.

* * *

"Irene!" Dell cried before frantically running in the kitchen. His wife stood with her arms on the counter, looking blindly in the distance. Her clothes were covered with flour, sugar and cookie dough. She was crushing two eggshells under her palm and looked absent.

"Uh…Whatcha doin' Irene?" Dell asked.

"Questionin' mah existence." Irene looked at the small box Dell held in his hand. Her eyes lit up.

"Dell! Oh, Dell, sugah!"

She ran up over to her husband, kissing him on the lips. He wanted to protest, but couldn't. Before he regained consciousness after the kiss, he saw Irene ogling the ring.

"Oh, Dell, it's divine!" She pulled it out of the box and prepared to put it on her finger. Dell quickly snatched it away from her.

"It ain't fer you Irene!" Dell cleared his throat, realizing how wrong that must have sounded;

"Ah found it in Mikey's jacket."

Irene looked at him blankly. She slapped her forehead.

"I'm not even going to ask."

"Irene," Dell followed Irene back to the counter; "Ah think the boy's gun' do something he shouldn't."

"I don' care. It ain't mah job to interfere!"

"Well, it should be!"

"Calm down, Dell! Ah'm sure it ain't so bad…"

"Cahm down? Whaddya mean _cahm down_?! Look at this ring!" he pulled the small rather expensive trinked and pushed it in her face.

"This is a five carat Tiffany cut with a platinum rim! The dang boy's been savin' up fer months!"

"Dell, Ah don't care if he sold his kidney fer it!" she moved out of the ring's way. "It ain't our job to interfere! And 'sides… That ring is six carats, easy."

Their argument was interrupted by their eight-year-old daughter entering the room.

"Hey, mom, can I borrow some money? Cindy and Gram are gonna teach me to play poker, and-"

"Sarah," Irene sighed; "This is an adult conversation, and you're really gonna have to leave. Go on! Practice your lines for the school play, or summin'!"

Sarah propped her wrists on her hips and tapped her foot.

"Ah play Helen Keller. Ah have no lines."

"Well then," Irene stretched her arm out in annoyance; "Practice… runnin' into walls or something!"

Sarah looked at her dad, nodded and left. She held her arms out and began feeling around the air, pretending to be blind. The double-sided door flapped behind her. Irene sighed before looking at Dell one last time.

"Look. I know you're worried about Pepps. But you have to learn to control yourself. You don't run her life. Now, what you're gonna do, is talk to Mikey, in a nice, civilized manner-"

"Yeah, but-!"

"Nice. Civilized! MANNER!" Irene stressed; "And you are going to sort it out. I'll go chat with the guests." Irene took off her apron and headed towards the door.

"The food is being prepared, so it will take a while. You can have the talk in the kitchen." Irene tossed away the stained apron on the floor.

"So, what, Ah'm just gonna have to pretend to be on board with the idea?"

"You don't have to pretend, Dell. Just…behave."

Soon she scooted between the gap between the door flaps. Dell picked up the eggshells and tossed them in the trashcan.

He really wished that people would stop reminding him to behave.

* * *

"What are you doin' in mah seat?" Sarah asked Mikey, who was sitting in the sofa and cuddling with his girlfriend.

"Well, Ah didn't think it would matter…"

"It does. Ah always sit with Pepper when we're watching TV."

"Aw, come on, Sarah. Ah love Pepper," Mikey protested, scooting closer to his beloved. Sarah snorted.

"That changes nothing. Get outta mah seat, bitch."

"Sarah!" Pepper shouted at her little sister's profanity. The rest of the guests found it amusing. Pepper quickly turned to Cindy, judging her angrily.

"You did this. You taught her to swear!"

"What? No I didn't." Cindy flinched. "I won't be teaching her to swear until she's at least ten!"

"Well if you didn't, who did?"

Irene's mother whistled nonchalantly.

Dell poked his head out of the kitchen door, looking at Irene. She nodded and nudged Mikey.

"Hun? Ah think mah husband needs to talk to ya."

"Oooo-kay?" the poor boy narrowed his eyes and got off his seat. Sarah awaited this opportunity and sat next to Pepper, hugging her tightly. Pepper kissed the top of her head, watching Mikey walk into the kitchen nervously.

The boy was standing opposite of Dell, only a dirty counter separating them.

"You uh…wanted to see me…sir?"

Without a word, Dell slid over a small black box, exposing the shiny diamond ring inside it. Mikey smirked as he looked at the jewel.

"Sir, I'm flattered, but I'm already dating your daughter."

"Cut the crap, Mikey," Dell commanded, pacing around the kitchen determinately. To calm himself down, he began rummaging through a drawer, not looking for anything in particular.

"Now. Why don't we talk about what you were planning to do with this?" he ticked his head towards the box. Mikey bit his lip.

"Well, Sir," he stammered a bit; "Ah… Well… As you may already know…though Ah am not sure if you condone it… Me and Peppsie, Ah mean- your daughter and Ah… uh…"

Dell picked up something from the kitchen drawer. It was a small black porcelain ashtray. He grabbed it with his other hand and twisted it, watching the young boy stutter his way out of this situation. For some reason, Dell found his babbling quite amusing.

"So…uh… We have been…together fer a long time now, and Ah… wanted to take it to the next level. The next level bein', uh, matrimony. Sir." He coughed.

"Heh," Dell chuckled, still holding the ashtray. "Now boy, Ah thing that this '_takin' things to the next level_' of yers is kinda…how do I put this delicately… ridiculous."

Mikey raised his eyebrow as Dell walked slowly up and down a straight line, not even looking at the confused boy.

"You see, boy, this whole 'next level' thingis…it's just stupid, ya know? You kids are young! You don't need to get to the next level! Hell, you can stay on your current level forever!" Dell raised his arms up in a nonchalant manner.

"Or not! You can go down a level or two, if ya like. You kids can separate. You can move to Dallas or somethin' and leave mah Pepps here. No need to rush things, boy. That's all Ah'm sayin'."

Mikey cleared his throat and looked down at his feet, as if he was preparing to say something extremely personal and slightly insulting.

"Sir, Ah really think that…you have a problem with me…dating your daughter. Sir."

Dell turned to the boy, slamming the ashtray on the counter. A small ring it emitted made the boy jump in his place. The slightly irritated Texan took a deep breath before smiling at the frightened Mikey.

"Alright, now. Ah'm gonna say this bluntly, 'cuz Ah probably won't git a chance to say it again. You got that?" He looked deep into the boy's eyes. Mikey nodded nervously.

"Good."

With a sigh of preparation, Dell looked at the boy head to toe before finally managing to speak.

"Remember when Pepps went to film school? To Boston? She returned after only a year, I guess she couldn't stand bein' away from home so long or summin'. She thought that she disappointed us. Honestly, we were jus' glad that she was home."

Mikey nodded, carefully looking at the ashtray Dell was pushing across the smooth surface of the counter. The boy was slightly terrified, but mostly irritated.

"But here's the thing: she changed. I'm not sure if she changed for the better, or for the worse, but Ah sure as hell don't like it. It's not like her to dress that way, or act that way…" he made a pause before speaking again;

"Heck, it ain't like her to date you!"

The boy gave out a careful smile, but was clenching his palm into a fist behind his back. He was staring at the clean, white snow covering the backyard. He wanted to be outside; he needed to cool of his head. A strange anger was boiling inside of him. Dell did not notice this.

"What Ah'm sayin' is," Dell continued; "Ah don't think marriage is a good deal for her at the moment." His voice suddenly turned deeper, more powerful. He looked at the boy, who was almost shaking with fear and fury.

"If it were up to me, boy, you wouldn't even come near mah Pepps."

Dell took the ashtray and looked out of the window. He noticed the transparent reflection of the boy's face. He was frowning at Dell, and looked ready to pounce. He saw Mikey's lips move as he hissed;

"That's the thing, isn't it, mister Conagher? It really isn't up to you."

Dell squinted at the window before casually turning his head to the young man. He seemed angrier than before, breathing heavily. His right eye was twitching slightly, and his nostrils flared. Still, Dell couldn't help but notice a small smile on the corner of his pale, freckled face.

"Come again, son?" Dell asked, bringing his eyebrow upwards slightly.

"I think you heard me, Dell," Mikey said determinately. Dell turned to him, half insulted that this pathetic creature used his first name to address him. He placed his hand on the ashtray, twisting it in place. Though Mikey was supposed to be intimidated by Dell's warning look, he showed no emotion besides pure frustration.

"I think the fact that bothers you the most is that Pepper isn't a kid any more. You can't tell her what not to do. You have to rely on her choices, and you're afraid that she might make the wrong ones. Is that correct?"

Mikey tipped his head to the side, letting his unkempt hair fall down his shoulder. Dell could feel his teeth rub against each other. Everything about this man bothered him at this point, right down to those messy locks of hair that needed to be cut hastily, preferably with a pair of old, rusty scissors. The kitchen seemed to evaporate into this air. The only things present in the world were Dell, this horrible brat, and a black ashtray, gripped by Dell's right hand.

"You don't want what's best for her, Dell. You just say that you do. In reality, you are just scared. You're scared of losing her again, aren't you?" His voice provoked the agitated Texan, and he soon felt his fingers tightening around the smooth surface of the ashtray. It seemed to be weightless at this point. Dell tried not to say anything, but instead frowned at the boy, realizing that this was a battle of endurance, a test to see who could stand more provocation.

Dell was losing miserably.

"Don't worry, mister Conagher. We are both fairly convinced that your daughter is an idiot. But in the end, she's my idiot, not yours." With a smile, he picked up the wedding ring case and placed it in the back pocket of his jeans. He looked straight at the fuming Texan with a conceited smile.

"Remember when we worked together? At the oil rig? You were the great mind, and I was just an inexperienced grease-monkey, anxious to catch a break?"

"Vaguely," Dell mumbled, lifting up the ashtray.

"I remember how well you treated me…until you got bored of workin' there. You threw a wrench at my head the last day we worked together… about a minute before the rig blew up to smithereens." Mikey smirked at Dell, whose eyes widened.

"We all know who was responsible for that oil rig explosion. We both know who left six great men jobless. And, we both know that your precious little wife and daughters don't know anything about it."

Dell wanted to protest at that. He needed to say something, anything. But all he could do at that point was let out a small puff of air, along with a couple of incoherent grunts. Mikey smiled. He walked up to Dell with a smug grin on his face, snickering.

"You know what, Dell? I'll humor you. I won't propose today. Not even you deserve to lose your daughter on Christmas."

Dell could feel the porcelain crack under his hand and wondered what would happen if his robotic hand held the porcelain. Mikey got dangerously close to him, and tested him some more. Mikey didn't care about their little quarrel anymore. This time he had the upper hand, for the first time in years. He wanted to see just how much the friendly neighborhood roughneck could endure.

"Besides," he started; "I suppose it's best to ask her when there are no relatives around. No, I'll ask her somewhere more intimate, you know? Somewhere where she'll be able to… thank me properly."

And then it all went to hell.

* * *

Never has there been such a sound in the Conagher household. Never has there been such a painful shattering noise, such loud cries of pain. Dell was breathing heavily above his latest creation; his daughter's companion's cataleptic body. A gaping hole was showing from under his red hair. It was bleeding; small red strings of the fluid flattened his hair. There was blood on the ashtray as well; it dripped on the once pristine white kitchen tiles. As Dell smelt the coppery blood, the world began to form itself again. He could feel the weight of the makeshift weapon in his hands. He dropped it on the floor, and in cracked into three pieces. Never has Dell felt such anger; such a burning rage which made him knock a man out cold with a single blow. He even restrained himself, trying to stop the impact. But the force was still strong enough to knock the young man from his feet. A small puddle formed around the boy's head. As Dell looked up, he saw his daughter's crying face, as she ran to her beloved.

"Mikey!" she shrieked. Dell's stomach turned at that point. He didn't want Mikey to hurt her, but doing what he did, he himself caused her pain. She sobbed, shaking Mikey's stiff shoulders and trying to wake him up. Her friend quickly ran up to her, tapping the boy's face. His eyes opened slightly, revealing the whiteness of his scleras. Pepper looked at her father in pain, her lip quivered while she tried to speak.

"You…" she sobbed; "You…!"

Dell took a step forward, not knowing what he was to do at that point. His daughter moved away from him. As Dell looked towards the kitchen door, he saw the rest of the family. Irene's mother was sheltering Sarah from the gruesome sight while Dell's father tried to keep his wife calm. Her face was white as the snow outside, and her eyes were vacant, as if they refused to see the horror in front of her.

Barely a minute later, the family was half dragging and half carrying Mikey through the snow. They needed to get him to the hospital. The snowflakes fell on the red specks of blood oozing from the wound. Dell stared out of the living room window, unable to speak. His wife was standing next to him. She wasn't speaking at all until that moment.

"_Control yourself,_ I said. _Talk in a nice, civilized manner, _I said."

"Irene," he tried to defend himself; "I couldn't… he provoked me!"

"Dell, that's not an excuse!" she screamed. She marched away from him and grabbed a family portrait from the mantelpiece above the fireplace. There was a happy family on it, a family which Irene couldn't recognize any more. She pointed to a smiling man, lifting up his six-year-old daughter by her waist, while she laughed whole heartedly. His wife and older daughter were standing by their side, smiling happily. Irene ran her finger across the man's face, which seemed familiar but also quite unknown and almost forgotten.

"I loved this man, Dell. He wasn't like this! What happened to him, Dell?"

"That man is still me, Irene, Ah swear!"

"No, it's not! No, it's not!" she cried, slamming the family portrait against the wall. The glass shattered into a million small pieces, much like her heart. She looked up at him, tears filling her eyes.

"You were wrong, Dell. Pepper wasn't the one who changed."

With that, she ran into the cold snow with the rest of her family. She didn't even bother to take off her apron. Dell could only stand alone and look at the snowflakes hide the trails of blood the boy left behind him. They could hide the blood, but they couldn't hide the scars.

There was nothing he could do at the moment, nothing he could build to fix this. This unpractical problem would take more than a couple of bangs with a wrench to repair. All he could do was stand and watch the snow.

_Let it snow, _he thought to himself. _Let it snow._

* * *

"After that, the reunion was abruptly cancelled. The boy was falling in an' out of a coma for the next week or so," Dell said with a small smile on his face. "He never managed to mention that bit of information to either Irene or Pepps… but the blow to the head didn't stop him from proposing to her two weeks later."

He looked down at his feet, and felt his teammates' gazes, fixed up on him. He scratched the back of his neck and sighed.

"Pepps is… they're married now. They moved to Dallas. She probably hates mah guts, and Ah can't exactly blame her. Ah…Ah haven't spoken to mah family in a while. Ah'm not even sure if they wanna have anythin' to do with me. Ah can't even remember the last time I talked to them. It's like…it's like we're not fam'ly anymore."

His teammates were looking at the Texan, unable to say anything.

"You should 'ave finished him off while you 'ad the chance," said the Spy calmly.

With a growl of impatience and anger, Dell stood up and picked up the small wooden desk the Heavy and the Soldier were playing poker at. He tossed it halfway across the room, and it hit the floor. The mercenaries stared at the broken desk in awe, while the Texan stood behind them. He clenched both of his fists, both the human and the mechanical, breathing heavily.

"Ah'll be outside," he announced just before he walked out the door. The mercenaries stared as he was leaving.

* * *

_BANG!_

_Click-click._

_BANG! _

_Click-click._

Dell was standing in the desert, shooting some practice targets with his shotgun. He noticed that it was gradually getting colder. He had been outside for merely twenty minutes, and he already couldn't feel the tips of his fingers. He shot another target in the head. The woodchips flew upon impact. Dell couldn't think of anything right now. For all he cared, he could have done this all night.

"A bit chilly 'ere, ain't it?"

Dell didn't even have to turn around, as he could immediately recognize his Australian teammate's voice. He ignored his question and continued to shoot.

_BANG!_

_Click-click._

The withdraw was stronger this time, for some reason. Dell steadied himself out. He could still sense the Australian, looking at him.

"You know, mate, Oi've been thinkin'. If the bloke does anythin' stupid again, you tell me. Oi ought to fill his eyes with led."

This time Dell lowered his weapon. An empty promise. Dell heard a lot of those in his life. But for some reason, this one made him smile.

"Ya know, Slim," he started; "Ah don't think you could've said anything better right now. Ah… 'ppreciate it, pard'ner."

The two men shoved almost no emotion. The Sniper nodded at him, kicking a pebble with the tip of his shoe. Dell shook his head.

"Naw, but, he wouldn't do anythin' to hurt mah Pepps. Sure, he's an idiot, but he still loves mah girl. He wouldn't hurt her…willingly."

"So, ya comin'?" The Sniper gestured to the door of the base.

"In a minute."

Somewhat pleased with what he had just done, the Sniper turned on his heel and began walking away. The Texan's call stopped him in place.

"Slim?"

Dell didn't wait too long for a response. He reloaded his gun and pointed it at the last remaining target.

"If he does hurt her, Ah give you permission to give the guy a couple extra nostrils, but under one condition."

"Wot condition?" Sniper asked.

_BANG!_

The last target fell down, and the Engineer grabbed his heated weapon with an air of triumph.

"Ah get to watch."


	6. Christmas Comes to Khabarovsk Krai

"Come oooooon!" Scout whined, staring at the burly Russian sitting on a small wooden chair. The Russian seemed less than eager to move from his location or give in to the boy's demands any time soon.

"Nyet," he said. This answer did not please the Scout, and he brought himself closer into the Heavy's face. He looked straight into his eyes, hoping to see a shred of emotion.

He didn't.

"Come ooooon!" he protested. At that point, the Sniper and the Engineer reappeared in the room, the Texan carrying something resembling a cardboard shoebox in his hands. They both looked at the Bostonian shouting at the Russian, who couldn't have cared less about the Scout's presence.

"Come ooooon! Don't be a fag! Come on, man! A fatass baldie like you's gawt to have a bunch-a lame Christmases."

The Russian yawned loudly, to irritate the Scout. The young man responded by making a series of angry spasms, punching the air as he groaned through his teeth. He finished his outburst with a stomp as he looked at the Heavy one final time. The other teammates found it particularly humorous.

"Ya mean to tell me that you…you of all people… are the one to break the bad Christmas story streak?!"

"Da." The Heavy showed no emotion giving his response.

The Medic rolled his eyes at the young Bostonian plopping his body hopelessly on the red couch with a sigh. The strength of impact the young man's body had made the Medic jump slightly from his position on the couch, but he hardly felt it. He was too busy rubbing his temples in frustration.

"You _Dummkopfs _are trying my patience vith zis Christmas talk. I really, really do not care for it."

The Texas noticed the large cardboard box in his arms, a small enclosed envelope taped on it. He walked up to the doctor, who looked up to the box as if it were a bag of foul-smelling garbage.

"This here's fer you, Doc. Stretch found it."

The doctor looked over to the Australian, who sat on a large armchair and stretched his arms up.

"It wos left in one of the crates outside, mate," he said, his words mixing with a relaxed sigh. Everyone on the team was looking at the cardboard box. The Scout seemed quite anxious to take a look at its contents.

"Da German Grinch gawt a present? No fair, I wanna present! No fair! I wannit, I wannit, I wannit!" he yelled as he reached his arm out to grab the box. The doctor stood up and held the cardboard container up. The Bostonian kneeled on the couch and reached up to it, but failed to grab it. Every attempt at capturing the elusive mystery box resulted in an angry grunt.

"Aw, forget it!" Scout said before plopping on the sofa once again. "It's probably some German crap. Like a German version of a crappy present…like a wool sweater with a swastika… or a box of dice for playin' Nahtzee, or, uh… is there such a thing as an anti-draidel?"

He asked, looking around the room. The Spy slapped his forehead in disbelief as he saw the Soldier place his hand under his chin, pondering the existence of an anti-draidel. The Medic huffed angrily.

"It is not a Christmas present, _Dummkopf!_ I…" he looked at the box and shook it to clarify its contents.

"I…I actually haff no idea vat it is."

The doctor detached a yellowed note taped on the box. He read the first few lines, his eyes moving across the paper rapidly.

He squealed.

"What was noise?" Heavy asked, while the rest of the team tried to control their chuckles. The Medic quickly hid the note behind his back, a small smile forming across his nervous face.

"_Herr _Heavy, vhy don't you vant to tell us about your Christmas?" he clumsily changed the subject. The Scout moved his gaze from the secret note and focused his eyes on the Heavy, his young Bostonian mind not being able to focus on two matters at once. The Heavy looked at the doctor, crossly.

"American Christmas never celebrated where Heavy from. Never had such customs. No Christmas trees or presents in my family. Were not greedy like you."

The teammates who had already told their stories were now staring at their feet in silent humiliation. The Heavy leaned back on his surprisingly sturdy chair.

"My father was counter-revolutionary. When he was killed, me, mother, older sister and five younger sisters were deported to gulag."

"Yuck!" Scout stuck his tongue out and narrowed his eyes in disgust. "I hate gulags. My Ma tried making one, dis one time. Tasted like crap. It was all greasy and shit."

"Gulag is labor camp," Heavy explained.

"…oh."

"Pardon me, if I may," Spy interrupted; "But according to your file I once took a peek at, you are the youngest of four. Two older brothers, a sister and yourself. There ees no evidence of the younger sis-."

"Youngest of four, correct. Youngest of four that lived."

The room felt as if somebody had slapped everyone in the face. Heavy hardly looked affected by this, and continued talking.

"We left three months later. Gulag burned down in December, 1941. My sister set it on fire."

There was a small hint of pride in his voice as he said that. Medic smiled as he carefully read the note taped to the shoebox.

"We all escaped. I was sent to assassination camp for young boys around December's end, by sister. She wanted me to train, become ruthless killer like her and brothers."

"Whoa, mate! A killer camp fer kiddies, this oughtta be good," Sniper smirked as he fidgeted in his seat. Almost immediately, everyone looked up at the Russian.

"That same day, something truly evil happened."

"Ooooh!" cried the Soldier; "Is there senseless violence in this story? If there is, I want to hear it!"

"Senseless as it ever can be," Heavy replied. The Soldier squealed with joy, in a manly way.

* * *

_Khabarovsk Krai, December 25__th__, 1941_

"Now remember, brother. This is the very assassin camp your brothers trained in. Your father spent years perfecting his skills. Your great grandfather was turned into a nefarious killing machine here. Here you will find how cruel life is. Here you will discover the limits of your strength. You will learn many ways of combat. You will learn to rely on yourself and yourself alone."

"But, sister! How long am I supposed to stay here?"

The twelve-year-old's sister looked into the distance, as she took one careful step across the crackling white snow. His mentor was renouncing her duties as a guardian. A young girl merely two years older than her brother was soon going to leave him completely alone.

"You will stay here until the blue moon comes twice. When my father's enemies lie in their blood, I will come and get you. By then, you should be fully trained, and ready to join the family business with our brothers and me." She clutched a large Kalashnikov securely in her small, white hand. Greasy blonde locks of hair fell out of her white ushanka. Her brother looked at her back.

"Where are you…going now, sister?"

The girl turned back to him.

"I am going to Germany. The non-agression pact we signed with them hardly applies to me. Our father died in unknown circumstances. As far as I'm concerned, everyone is a suspect. Farewell, brother."

And just like that, she disappeared into the blizzard, shielding her face with her right arm. Her brother tried calling out to her, but it was futile; she was already out of his sight. He nodded to her, looking at the deep footprints she left in the snow. He thought of the fate the Germans will have to suffer through after his dear sister comes to their homeland.

Woe betide those who anger Natasha Drukenski.

The young boy then turned around and began walking through the thick snow. This was no camp in a traditional sense. It was in a forest, deep in Dzhugdzhur Mountains. It was a survivalist camp, every boy would arrive with only some scarce rations, twenty bullets and a bottle of vodka. The boy huffed and adjusted the large rifle strapped on his back. He held a small bag in his right hand. His heavy boots marched through the snow, which was beginning to become thinner as he walked into the lush evergreen forest.

His face was becoming red, and he looked around the forest. This was survival of the fittest, a battle of brawn and brains. The winner was the last one standing. His family had a history; every single male in his family survived this training camp. And now, it was his turn.

A small spotted sparrow flew on the boy's right shoulder. It chirped loudly, much to the boy's irritation.

"Leave, sparrow," he commanded; "You're giving away my position!"

The bird cared not about the boy's command. It fluttered its hazel-brown wings and rubbed its small head against the boy's chin. It cooed softly, before jumping down the boy's stretched-out arm. The young boy smiled.

"What is it, little bird? You need something? Maybe a little vodka?"

He almost laughed at his suggestion. Then he realized that this small creature was the only thing that made him laugh ever since he had escaped the gulag earlier that month. Without thinking, he put his gloved hand into the bag. The sparrow tilted its head to the side in interest. Soon it watched the boy unwrap a sandwich, rip off a small, barely visible crumb of bread, and give it to the bird.

"Here you go, comrade."

The small bird pecked at the bread from the palm of the boy's hand. It chirped thankfully and flew happily into the air. It landed on a small broken fence. It was as white as the snow, falling around them in large flakes. The boy looked at the bird as he chewed on his sandwich before tossing it in the bag. The sparrow looked at him and opened its brownish beak. It seemed to form a small smile.

The boy smiled at his new friend as well.

And then, tragedy.

A sharp knife flew by the small bird's neck, and into its plump feathery chest. The boy almost dropped his sandwich in bemusement. He ran over to it, and watched the crimson blood pool on the cold, icy surface of the wood's ground. The bird managed to chirp, faintly. He looked up, trying to find out where the lethal weapon came from. And there, he saw another boy, standing behind a tree.

This boy wasn't aiming for his competition. He aimed for the poor defenseless bird. The two young boys looked at each other, their eyes locked. The killer ran away, thinking that Drukenski would go after him. But the young boy had something else on his mind. He picked up the bird in his hands. The bird's bloodied body slipped off the knife's blade as he did this.

He didn't make a sound. He listened to the wind, whooshing through the woods, and later, the bird's last breath. It then closed its eyes, peacefully. The boy thought about the killer, wasting his weapons on something as innocent and harmless as a little bird. He looked at the knife's bloodied blade. He could see his stiff expression on it. He was angry. Only cowards try and kill harmless creatures.

This boy hated cowards.

"All you deserve now, my friend, is a proper grave."

Under the broken fence, he dug out some of the frozen dirt. He pushed the red snow aside, along with some bullet shells. After ten minutes of digging, the hole he made was roughly the size of one of his fists. Still, he could place the bird's carcass inside it. For a second, he thought that he could feel its heartbeat. Just for a second, and then it was gone.

After piling up the snow back on its small, lifeless body, the boy took out one of the shells, and jammed it into the dirty snow, as a reminder never to be a coward himself. He hunched over the small grave and felt cold, icy drops trickling from his eyes. He wiped them off and grabbed his rifle, marching through the snow again. He needed to find the cowardly boy. Life had to go on, despite this.

* * *

Silence.

Scout's faint sobbing broke the harsh silence, coming in short, silent bursts. The Bostonian covered his face with his bandaged hands in shame.

"Zat…vas… horrible." The doctor tried not to think about the small sparrow, reminding him so much of his beloved Archimedes. The Engineer placed his hand on the Scout's jerking shoulder, trying to comfort him the way he used to comfort Sarah when she was younger and prone to nightmares.

"That… that's not even a little bit funny, private," noted the Soldier.

"No. It's not," Heavy agreed. He then stood up abruptly, mumbling about cleaning his Sasha. He slowly moved towards the door, not saying another word.

The team looked at the Heavy in cold, harsh silence. The door closed behind the Russian with a slam, which made everyone flinch. They all felt truly and utterly terrible. The Scout nodded to the Texan who then retreated to his place.

Quiet.

Everything was quiet.

"Ey, 'hoo wonts ta hear a story of me blowin' up half-a Scotland?" the Demoman interrupted.

The team looked at the drunken Scot angrily. However, they really wanted to hear this story so they let him speak.


	7. Bomb Lang Syne

**A/N**_: _Howdy, folks. Now, this chappie is going to be a mix of everything. Basically everything anyone loves in a fanfic thrown in and mixed together. After reading this, you'll think that I just got out of a focus group meeting. You'll probably think that the only thing I lacked was a grumpy-yet-lovable chimp in a suit.

Well, I had that, too. He's called the Spy.

_*ba dum tss* _

_*crickets chirping*_

Uh...yeah. Special thanks to ChaosandMayhem for the beta work. Now enjoy!

* * *

_Ullapool, Scotland, Christmas Eve, 1944_

"Are you sure about this, Sergeant Thompson?"

"I'm only sure that this child is the next step to blowing the Fritz out of our great country."

"But, Sir! He's…he's…_Scottish._"

"Nonsense, Private Pankhurst. He and I live by the same rules of our Queen. The boy lives a bit more north, but in the end, we're all children of the Kingdom."

"But, Sir! He's…he's also _black_!"

"That can't be helped, Pankhurst. We will just have to endure his disability as true, steady Brits."

The door soon opened, and a young boy entered the secret military base hidden deep in the Northern Highlands. The boy carried a small cardboard box of experimental and highly dangerous explosives. He saw the two men sitting at the table; the young, nervous private and the proud, stoic sergeant. They had their hands laid flat on the smooth metal table, and squinted at the boy, hardly visible in the dark room. The boy was somewhere between the age of eight and eleven, had an eye patch over his left eye, and looked about as serious and stoic as the sergeant. He walked up to the table and placed the box on it. The two military men nodded at him.

"Gentlemen," the boy nodded.

"Tavish DeGroot, is it, eh boy?" The Sergeant asked, looking at the case file sitting on his lap. The boy nodded.

"So what have you got for us today, old boy?" Asked the Sergeant. Tavish rummaged through the contents of the box with a small smile on his face.

"Gentleman, Eye have been lookin' int'a yer ways of blowin' up the Germans tae bits," he said, in his strong accented, high-pitched childish voice. The two military men were listening to the child closely.

"It seems to me that you use mostly HMX nowadays. Also known as cyclotetramethylene-tetranitramine. Quite complex, produced by nitration of hexamine in the presence of other, more basic chemical compounds. Ye lads 'ave been good at makin' it for the last ten years or so. You might think it's tha best explosive Her Majesty's Army could ask for, right lads?"

The two men nodded, and then flinched as the boy slammed his small black fist against the metal table.

"Wrong!" He shouted as some test tubes and packages jumped up in the box. The Private gulped as he saw this. The boy pulled out a small bottle. It seemed to be completely empty. The two military men stared at the glass body in admiration, not being too sure what they were looking at.

"Gentlemen, Eye present to yee, the most powerful explosive yet to be created by man! Its performance is twenty-five percent greater than tha one of your precious HMX," the boy made a mocking grimace as he said the name of the explosive. "It's the fastest known nonnuclear explosive, detonating at ten and one-hundredth miles per second. Now, Eye know what yer thinkin'; '_Nonnuclear? That stuff is fer pansies!'_ Well Eye say, try callin' us pansies when yer getting' blown away by this miracle of detonation! Made out of cubane, with a relative effectiveness factor of well over two, and a bloodeh stability that'd make ya wannae chew yer own foot off!"

The boy slammed the bottle against the table.

"Your precious HMX seems like crap now, don't it?"

"Hmm…" the Sergeant murmured, "An explosive like this would do wonders for the world of combat, good chap."

"That's something ye can ber yer crumpet eatin' arse on," the boy said victoriously, crossing his arms. He then grabbed the bottle and presented it to the two men.

"Now, let's start the biddin' at two hundred quid."

"Two hundred pounds?!" the Sergeant said, his mouth agape. "You're mad, you Scottish twit!"

"Oh, well now, looks loike you aren't interested. Look, lad, Eye 'ave ta make a livin' too, ya know? Cubane ain't cheap. Gram fer gram, it's more expensive than gold, and twice as rare!" the boy held out two of his fingers, trying to emphasize the rarity. The sergeant huffed.

"We will give you one-hundred and fifty pounds for it, no more."

"Well now yer bein' mean ta me, lad!" the boy clutched his heart. "Yer tryin' ta bankrupt me, ya are! What soulless monsters! Tryin' ta rid a poor boy outta his wage…"

The Private frowned at the boy, about to trick them out of their budget. The Sergeant shook his head.

"Alright. One-hundred and seventy pounds, five shillings for the bottle, and a sixpence for your trouble, old sport."

"Make that a florin fer me effort. And stop calling me old! Eye am at least six times as young as ye!"

The Private nodded to the boy, and presented him with an envelope. He then added seven shillings in the boy's hand.

"Thank ye, gentleman. It has been an honor."

The boy then grabbed the box and ran out of the base, before either of the men could realize that the bottle he had given them was completely empty. He ran down the hills, looking at the stars. They twinkled on the twilight sky, still quite pale after the snow that fell over the hills the night before.

They really did shine as bright as her eyes.

* * *

"…so then, Eye jus' took the money and left! Eye can't wait ta see their faces when they open tha bottl'. They're gonnae be livid! But wot are they gonnae do? They'll be down South in their pansy lil' England. Twits! Twits abound!" Tavish laughed loudly, telling his friend Adelaide about his latest endeavor at making some quick cash. He leaned over Adelaide's work desk in her factory. She was currently assembling weapons for the soldiers. She barely looked at him while he was telling his story.

"Wot's wrong, Ghost? Ye hardly said a word ta me since Eye got here."

The girl ran her fingers through her long, platinum hair. Her normally ghostly pale face was turning red with hurry, and she spoke quickly, assembling another rifle. She was working at the same pace as all the other women in the factory, and their work seemed almost synchronized.

"Nothing is wrong, Tavish," she spoke quietly; "I just have to put all these weapons together in half an hour!" She gestured to the piles and piles of metal scraps behind her back. Tavish noticed his friend's soft, delicate fingers becoming red with blood. He glared at them.

"More help is coming to help work. Mostly children that used to work in the sewing factories. What help they will be!" She said sarcastically. She brought her index and middle finger together and showed them to Tavish.

"Most of them have sewed their fingers together, like this. That means that we will have to do even more work because of their inability to sew properly." She huffed once again. Tavish looked at his friend work, her bloody red lips puckering whenever she failed to fit the magazine clip into the weapon. She put away another finished rifle and began working on the new one.

"So what are ye doin' this Christmas, ghost?" asked Tavish.

"This, unfortunately," the young girl said with a sigh. Tavish's eyes widened in surprise.

"But…we always celebrate Christmas. We drink hot cider and give each other presents and everything!"

"I'm sorry…" she whined. "But right now, I can't even think about Christmas."

"So you don't even have a Christmas roast? Or presents? No roasted chestnuts? Even me mum is making roasted chestnuts, and she's blind as a bat!" He leaned over to her, speaking slowly and quietly.

"Do you have a Christmas tree?"

She shook her head, a sigh escaping her lips.

At that point a larger man grabbed Tavish by the wrist, instructing him to leave. Adelaide waved goodbye to her friend, who looked at her in bemusement. No Christmas tree? If there was one person on the entire planet who needed a tree, it was his best friend Adelaide. As he stepped out and into the cold, misty streets outside of the factory, he looked down at the box he was still holding in his hands. In it he had lighters, bomb fragments, matches, explosive substances… and even a few festively decorated grenades he threw in for laughs. All in all, these items looked a lot like Christmas decorations. He looked towards the large, lush, evergreen forest on the outskirts of the town. He smiled as he looked at the largest tree, sticking out high above all the others. Tavish had a plan.

He was going to get his Ghost a tree.

* * *

_Click._

_Click._

_Ptang-ptang._

_Clack-clack!_

Adelaide sat up on her warm bed and rubbed her eyes with her bloodied knuckle. She smacked her dry lips together and blinked, trying to clear her vision. The first thing she saw was a big clock on the vanity desk. It was exactly midnight. The second thing she realized was that every muscle in her body ached from another busy day at the factory. It took every ounce of will power to get out of the covers and get up to the window, where she finally saw the third crucial thing in this picture;

Tavish was throwing pebbles at her window.

"Adelaide!" Tavish yelled, only to lower the tone of his voice. "You have to come down," he whispered; "Come down now! It's incredible!"

Adelaide blinked once. Her deep blue eyes really did resemble two bright, shining stars.

"What's incredible?" she asked, her words being mixed with a long yawn. She covered her mouth with her hand, excusing herself.

"You have to come down! Come on, come on, it's Christmas already! Come on Ghost!"

"Tavish, it's late and I really have to sleep if I want to work well at the factory tomorrow, and-."

"Screw the factory!" Tavish cried, waving his arms. "Look at ya'self, lass! Blonde hair, blue eyes… If the Nazi's do come 'round you'll be just fine!"

Adelaide couldn't help but to laugh at that.

"Come on, trust me!" He gingerly pointed at his eye patch, extending his arm out to her.

"Pirate Ghost?" he asked.

He didn't wait long for her response.

"Pirate Ghost." She smiled and ran downstairs, hastily grabbing her jacket along the way down.

* * *

Adelaide didn't care much about walking. Walking up a hill for twenty minutes could be pleasurable or completely exhausting. Walking up a hill for twenty minutes with Tavish Degroot covering your eyes with his hands the entire time is plain torture.

"Can I look _now_?" she asked for the umpteenth time.

"Almost, Ghost."

She huffed. She was too tired already, but continued to struggle up the hill, keeping up with the boy's hurried pace. She was too anxious to find out what this entire thing was about. She was about to take another quick step when her friend's hands stopped her from moving forward. She tripped backwards and huffed once again.

"Okay, you can open your eyes now!" Tavish said.

"I can't. You're blocking them," she growled. Tavish apologized and moved his ebony hands off her ivory face. Adelaide looked up for one brief second…

_Gasp!_

What she saw was the endless Ullapool skyline. Above it were hundreds upon hundreds of bright, twinkling stars. They twinkled in a strange harmony, and seemed to be falling like snowflakes atop the large evergreen trees surrounding the two wide-eyed children. The snow that accumulated on the emerald branches seeped through the prickly leaves, making it look like every single one of the trees was decorated with ribbons of silver and diamonds, gleaming in the moonlight. There was one tree that stood out among all the others, a magnificent thirty- foot-tall pine tree, decorated with many red sticky bombs and oddly placed colorful cables connecting them. These small bombs may have looked like the simple explosive contraptions Tavish showed Adelaide almost every day, but on this glorious night, they looked different. They looked festive.

And then it hit her.

They looked like Christmas ornaments.

She stared long and hard at the unusually decorated Christmas tree her friend had spruced up for her. Her face took a doltish expression, and her jaw was lowering itself closer and closer to the snowy ground. At one point, Adelaide closed it, fearing that it would break off.

"Tavish…did you…is this for… Tavish it's…" she stuttered. The young boy soon interrupted her, tossing a few sticky bombs he took from his jacket pocket onto the ground.

"It ain't finished yet, lass," he said half-nervously. He instructed her to stand near the bombs as he walked up to the base of the tree. She stared at him as he returned, holding a strange, bulgy object in both of his hands.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing at the five-pointed metal object made out of scrap metal and held together by some scotch tape and rope. It was sloppily made, but she thought it looked fine, nonetheless. Tavish examined the object in his hands.

"Well…every tree needs a star, right?" He fidgeted with the metal object in his hands, avoiding eye-contact with the girl. "Eye thought that…well…" he began looking everywhere but in the girl's direction, speaking rather hastily.

"Every tree needs a star, lass, and Eye…Eye wonted ya to…Eye thought, maybe…You'd loike ta…put it on top?" he finished, trying desperately not to look to anxious while waiting for her response. The girl took the makeshift star from Tavish and began looking at it more closely. She then looked up to the top of the high tree, a steely emotionless expression on her face.

"How do you think I could get up there?"

The boy smiled and took out a small metal case with two red detonation buttons. Adelaide looked small contraption, then back at the scattered bombs.

"No…" she said through a small chuckle, only to realize that Tavish was being completely serious. "No, Tavish!" she repeated, this time with a serious look.

"Come on, Ghost!" he tried to convince her. "The trick is to jump a moment before the thing goes off, and then you get to fly through the air, and then-." Tavish raised his arm up to illustrate the flight, but Adelaide interrupted him.

"These…_ Stickybomb jumps_, or whatever you call them are insane! I can't jump and just hope not to get blown up by those…those…things!" she pointed at the tiny scattered bombs.

Tavish exhaled loudly, raising his eye towards the starry sky.

"You're not scared, are you?"

Adelaide looked away, shyly. She nodded.

At that moment, Tavish took her small, delicate hand in his, grabbing it reassuringly. She looked at him, holding the star firmly in the palm of her hand.

"On the count of three?" he asked.

Adelaide looked at the small bombs under her feet as Tavish moved his thumb across the smooth surface of the detonator. His friend's smile was agreement enough.

"Okay, lass, on the count of three, we jump. Okay?"

She nodded, grabbing his hand more firmly.

"One…"

Tavish secured his thumb on the button, feeling Adelaide's iron grip.

"Two…"

His toes curled, ready to jump. He bent his knees slightly.

"Three!"

The two kids were flying through the air, being fired away like two torpedoes. They screamed loudly, first with shock, then with fear, then with terror as they whooshed through the prickly branches, bruising their skin. But soon, neither Tavish nor Adelaide felt the prickly sensation, and they were now in for a clear sailing high and above the treetops. They soon found themselves screaming with excitement. Adelaide looked down, laughing all the time. The two of them were flying like birds. Neither of them wanted to descent anytime soon.

"Now, lass!" Tavish ordered. The two were whooshing past the decorated tree. Adelaide reached out her arm and jammed the star on top. The top branches stayed, but soon, it was clear that the ornament was secured. It shined on the silvery moonlight.

"I did it!" Adelaide exclaimed in an unusually high-pitched and excited voice.

"Uh-oh," said Tavish. Adelaide looked at him briefly.

"_Uh-oh_? Why _uh-oh_?"

The joyous screams soon developed into cries of horror, as the two would soon be taught a very valuable lesson in gravity.

_What goes up must come down._

And quite soon, a small hill of snow became a mess of various limbs as the two made quite an ungraceful descend. Adelaide was the first to kick herself out of the snow and raise her head above the pure, white blanket of frost. She spat out the earthy ice that filled her mouth and shook the snowflakes of her head. She looked at her accomplishment for a brief second before calling out Tavish's name. The boy soon appeared next to her, groaning and rubbing his head.

"Wot the bloodeh…?" he asked, his mouth wide opened. He soon began waving his hands around, screaming almost incoherently.

"Why is it dark? Why's it dark, Ghost?! NAH! I'm blind! I CANNOE BE BLIND, GHOST! I CANNOE, NOT JUS' YET, LASS!"

The boy fretted about the loss of his eyesight for a few seconds before he felt Adelaide's hand on his face. She pulled his displaced eye patch from his good eye and back on his gaping eye socket. He blinked once to clear his vision.

"Oh." He turned away from her, slightly embarrassed. "Thanks."

"It's beautiful, Tavish," she said, looking at the now glorious tree. Tavish took out the small metal contraption once more.

"You wonnae see it lit up?" he asked. Adelaide didn't answer him, but the idea of lighting up the tree made her eyes glisten.

"Cover yer ears, lass!" he said, just as he pressed the second, smaller button on the remote.

The bombs went off in many colors, lighting up not only the tree, but the entire forest. The glow stretched far and beyond the tree, and the two kids could almost hear the angelic choir in the distance as the bombs exploded in perfect harmony. Everything was brilliant and magical.

For about a second.

And then the force of the bombs made the earth move and shake vigorously, causing the two children to topple over. The ground cracked, still shaking. The tree was moving, drifting away on the large portion of land Tavish had just blown up. The two kids stared in awe as the patch of land moved further and further. The noise was deafening. All the houses, all the factories, all the people that lived on that side were moving further and further. When the loch water finally filled the gap between the children and the now distant part of land, Tavish thought that he might have underestimated the power of the small decorative bombs.

"Whoops."

Adelaide blinked upon seeing the western part of her beloved Scotland drifting away in its now island state. She put her hand on Tavish's back and gave it a few quick taps.

"Don' worry," she said; "That part of Scotland is mostly just whiskey and potatoes."

"Eye guess seven tons of decorative C4 _was_ a bit too much… Do you think the folks'll get mad?" Tavish asked. Adelaide looked back to the gleaming surface of the muddy water.

"Maybe. Some lads are getting off work soon, and they might be on their way to the pubs over yonder…"

"When do you think they'll get here?" Tavish looked around the forest, nervously.

He received his answer when he saw a horde of angry Scots, holding broken bottles, pitchforks and flaming torches in their barbaric hands. The ruthless Highlanders pointed at the boy, and looked ready to charge.

"GET HIM!" one Scot shouted, lifting up his torch.

Tavish thought that this might be a good time to run like hell.

* * *

"I wos hidin' from the lads fer two weeks in an abandoned cave before me mum finally found me. Fer a blind woman, a fortnight wos quite good, mind you. It wos me worst Christmas, but Adelaide later told me that it wos her best," the Demoman finished his tale.

The Pyro commented something about that story being adorable and clasped its hands together. The Spy smiled at the tale as well. Having an outdoor Christmas tree was a charming idea. It seemed quite familiar.

Too familiar.

"Anyway, Eye ended up havin' ta pay a hundred an' seventy pounds fer a new pub. The bit of Scotland is still floatin' 'round somewhere. Eye think it's now called 'Ireland'."

"Yeah, well, I think dat story gave me cancer," Scout said, staring at the package Medic was holding on his lap, while writing a letter on it. "I think the only think we're all interested in is; WHAT'S IN DA BOX? WHAT'S IN DA BOX?! COME ON, DOC, WHAT'S IN THE BOX?!" the boy screamed at the doctor.

"I don't know, Scout," the Medic said through his teeth; "now shut up!"

"Hmmph hmmpnhhmd thhm Ghmmst, Dmmohmmn?" asked the Pyro.

"Ghost? She started coughing up blood a few years ago and died," Demoman shrugged and took a sip of Scrumpy. "'s alright, lads. I still get ta see her occasionally, before I respawn."

"Oi still don't think that's normal, mate," the Sniper commented, leaning his head on the palm of his hand.

"Anyway," Tavish continued; "That wos the last time Eye ever tried to be romantic ta anyone but meself. Cheers, mates!" he said, taking a swig of Scrumpy and toppling over his chair with a thump. The team gave little, if any, reaction to this.

"_Ach, ja._" The Medic looked up from the letter he was writing, a solemn expression on his face. "Many men do zhings zhey are not proud of vhen zhey are in love…zhey do shtupid things despite being in love…" the Medic looked around, to see if Heavy returned from cleaning his mini-gun.

"Oh boy, here we go…" Scout said, imagining that the Medic was about to tell a semi-tragic Christmas story of his own. He looked at the cardboard box once more, anxious to find out what was in it.

It was obvious that he would have to wait a little longer to find out.


	8. Süßer die Glocken nie klangen

__**A/N**: I love all of you readers, you know that? So, uh... remember when I said that this story might have a teeny-tiny bit of romance in it...?

**Reader**: Yeeeees...

**Author**: Well...

**Reader**: I'm out. *leaves*

**Author**:...dumbass.

* * *

_Stuttgart, Germany, Christmas Eve, 1962_

Christmas Eve in Stuttgart, Germany. It was always considered to be quite quiet. Apart from a handful of carolers patrolling the streets, singing festive tunes in a melodic tone, most of the other residents this semi-rural metropolis were in their homes, celebrating the Eve with their loved ones. Snow was falling on the well lit streets quickly, and not a single stray sound was coming from the decorated houses. The season was merry in every sense of the word.

"_MURDERER!"_

Whoops, I spoke too soon.

To better understand this loud, echoing outburst, that made the carolers run for their lives, we must return a couple of minutes into the past, and take a peek in the Dienstag household. In this larger apartment on the south side of Stuttgart, lived Heimlich Dienstag, and his wife, Julia. They were considered to be the power couple of Baden-Württemberg. He was a renowned doctor, about to open his own practice. She was a doting housewife, the beauty of Stuttgart. On the surface, they seemed ideal. But the way they portrayed themselves was a mask, which hid a flimsy façade.

Heimlich despised Julia. Not at first, but as years of their marriage went by, Heimlich realized that Julia and him were nothing alike. She absolutely despised blood, hated doves, and did not appreciate her husband's profession in the slightest, albeit the money came in handy for her many shopping trips. But what else could he possibly expect? He married the woman for her looks and reputation of being the fairest woman. He hoped that marriage would help him fall in love with her. Sadly, this was not the case. Julia did not seem to notice his lack of interest, and tried her best to maintain their slightly odd marriage dynamic. However, there was one thing she desperately wanted to change about their dull, childless marriage. More specifically, the 'childless' part.

They were having their almost modest Christmas dinner, complete with a turkey, some peas and warm apple strudels. They sipped large amounts of wine of which they knew nothing about, besides its extortionate price. Julia kept pouring more and more burgundy liquid into her husband's crystal glass, which he would drink without even looking up at her. She nervously tapped her manicured nails against the auburn table, constantly adjusting her negligee the size of a postage stamp. She stared deep into Heimlich's eyes, trying to pull out information from him about his day.

"So," she squealed, which made her husband cringe; "what did you do today?"

"Nothing, Julia," he said coldly; "I did an appendectomy on a twelve-year-old boy, and that was about it."

"Oh! That sounds exciting!"

"It isn't." He took another fork full of peas and ate them gluttonously. Julia sighed. A fiendish smile then appeared on her face as she grabbed the sleeve of his shirt.

"Honey," she cooed; "what do you say we take the dessert into the bedroom?" She batted her long eyelashes, waiting for a response. Heimlich gave her a look he normally gave to complete and utter morons.

"But Julia, darling," he said calmly; "Think of the crumbs!"

It took every ounce of Julia's determination not to smack her husband at that point. She then tried the more aggressive approach.

"Do you like what I'm wearing?" She asked, pointing at the negligee. "It's new."

"Of course it is," Heimlich responded through a mouthful of turkey. His wife scolded him with her gaze, but decided against getting mad at him, and instead, grabbed his left palm and pressed it against her new transparent dressing gown.

"It's quite soft, isn't it?" she grinned. Heimlich dropped his fork on the plate with a clang. He did not even bother to look at her.

"Julia," he started; "Puppies are soft. Pillows are soft. Entrails are soft. That does not mean I want to slam my hand on them on every occasion I get. Apart from the entrails, naturally. Second of all, I fail to see the reason why you thought that I would be impressed by this... this…" he inspected the dressing gown, moving his head down and trying to make up a correct name for it; "glorified handkerchief. And, lastly, I find it quite difficult to eat with only one hand. Do you mind?"

He quickly pulled his palm out of her cleavage, to which she huffed and placed her hands on her hips. She tapped her foot against the floor while he finished the remaining bits of succulent turkey. Julia clasped her palms together and stood up, somewhat nervously.

"Heimlich…" she leisurely walked across the dining room, constantly tugging on the skimpy negligee.

"Heimlich…I feel like you're not interested in me at all, anymore."

_It took you this long to figure it out?_

"What do you mean, Julia?" Heimlich asked, wiping his mouth off a small napkin. Julia sighed.

"Heimlich…how long have we been married? Five years, it seems."

"Actually, it has been five years, two months, thirteen days and fourteen hours since we wed," Heimlich corrected her. Julia smiled at this, thinking that her husband was a caring, thoughtful man. She never considered the possibility that her husband was counting the days in holy matrimony the way prisoners count their days in solitary confinement.

"Well, you see Heimlich… being married to you has been…well…it's been… a remarkable experience, Heimlich."

Her husband leaned back on his chair and stretched his arm up, waiting for a response. It came quicker than he had anticipated.

"Heimlich, I want to have a child."

Heimlich raised his eyebrow, looking skeptically at his wife. He sniffed. Then he scratched the top of his head. Then he chuckled. And then he sighed, looking back at his smiling wife.

"…mmm. Nah."

His wife looked at him, wide-eyed and confused. Did he… just say what she thought he had said?

"_Nah_?" She asked him, crooking her mouth to the side to emphasize the ridiculousness of his unexpected answer.

"Nah. A variant of no. As in; _I do not want to have a child_."

"Well, why not?!" Julia asked, stomping her foot. Heimlich shook his head and clicked his tongue.

"I just don't. Please pass the strudel."

"Well, do you mean no, as in, _not yet_?" She asked, not listening to his request.

"I mean no, as in '_We are not having this conversation this year, now please pass the damn strudel'._"

Julia paced around the room nervously, listening to the ticking of the antique grandfather clock. It showed that it was roughly half past ten. She gulped and narrowed her eyes at Heimlich. As she spoke, her voice cracked with anger and haste to get a point across. Heimlich listened to her, not even caring enough to look away from the plate of delicious pastries.

"Well, why not? Last year it was because of the money, the year before that you wanted to be promoted, the year before that was…was… God knows what! Heimlich, what is it this time?!" She slammed her fists on the table, which made a wine glass spill its contents. Her husband hissed at his clumsy wife.

"I'm sorry, but this is how things work sometime. I just don't think we're ready."

Julia frowned upon her husband, and the next sound that came out of her mouth was a gush of mocking laughter.

"_Ready_? Ha!" She tossed her head back with brute force, and Heimlich thought that her long neck would snap at one point. "I have been ready for years, Heimlich! I married you because I thought I saw a father in you. A clever, well-read doctor! I have been ready since you first asked me out!" The tone of her voice increased in volume, as well as pitch. The doctor had to cover his ears at one point to protect his precious hearing.

"I never thought that I, Julia Brennenjude, would have to wait five years to convince my husband to conceive a child with me! My entire family thinks I'm barren! Do you know how hard it is for me to live like that?! My mother thinks I'm a disappointment! She sprayed me with holy water the last time she visited!"

Heimlich reached for the strudel as Julia fell on the wooden floorboards, tears flowing from her eyes. He scoffed as she clutched big clumps of her hair. She could be so melodramatic at times. She whimpered;

"Our children would have been smart and beautiful!"

"Not to mention imaginary."

"Wha…wha…" Julia gulped and stood up from the floor, looking straight at Heimlich. "What's that supposed to mean?!"

Heimlich sighed.

"Well…I suppose I should tell you… I do not want to have children." He looked up to the ceiling, and tried to pick his next words carefully. "Now, you are not the biggest issue, albeit you are one of the biggest ones, it's just that… I cannot stand children."

Julia blinked once as Heimlich twitched his fingers, thinking of the menaces children could be.

"I mean, I know I help people, but only because I'm forced to! Children are… different, unthankful devils. They cry and run and don't respect rules of public decency and I-I just…" He exhaled sharply to calm himself down. This action worked, and he didn't even notice Julia standing beside him, her nostrils flaring and steam practically coming out of her ears. The tears had dried up by now.

"I never want to have children. Not with you, not with anyone else."

Julia's eye twitched as Heimlich ate the delicious strudel. She spoke through her teeth, grinding them as she did so.

"And at what point were you going to tell me this?" She asked. Heimlich shrugged, gulping a mouthful of the pastry.

"Honestly, I thought that you would figure it out on your own. I mean, this is not exactly out of the blue. No, no, this is more like a giant monster standing in the damn middle of the blue." He laughed at his analogy, but Julia wasn't entertained.

"I lived five years with you… I did nothing but the best for you and… you lied…you killed me." Julia clutched her head, which was suddenly beginning to ache.

"Come on, Julia. If you really want children that badly, you can always leave, and-."

"Leave? LEAVE!? You kill me and crush my dreams and you tell me to LEAVE?!" She shrieked, grabbing the neck of the expensive wine bottle. Heimlich laughed at her.

"If your dreams consisted purely of having a child, I think you might have…well… wasted your life." He then smirked upon seeing his wife practically foam at the mouth with fury.

"You…you… you murderer…" she blurted out through her rage, before lifting up the heavy, green wine bottle high above her head.

"_MURDERER!"_

And, we're back on track.

Bottles crashing, plates clinging as they fly straight into the wall, Julia screaming, and Heimlich desperately trying to avoid the projectiles being thrown at him did not necessarily describe the strangest Christmas Heimlich has had, but it definitely was the loudest. His wife insulted him through her cries of rage, and the poor doctor ran across the room to protect himself. He ran towards the door, flipping over chairs in order to clear his path. He clutched the gilded door knob and gave it a jiggle, sensing his mad wife on his tail. He finally heard a click and opened the door, wide enough for him to exit without giving his wife enough room to run after him. He rushed out, not even taking his jacket. The last thing he saw before shutting the heavy door was a knife flying right for him. The sharp blade flew into the wooden entrance, where it stayed, standing perfectly still. Heimlich was breathing heavily on the other side, and barely calmed down even after he heard Julia take out the knife and walk back into the kitchen. Her quick, stomping pace became softer, quieter. And then it was gone. Heimlich looked at the number of the apartment door; 219. He knew that he wouldn't be going back inside anytime soon.

Just as well, he thought to himself. There were people nearby more deserving of his visit.

And as soon as he thought of them, his heart began to pound wildly, and he ran down the long, narrow staircase, anxious to see them.

* * *

The snow was falling on the well-lit road, and looked like a silk white veil covering a road paved with gold. The church organ was playing outside, and through the dense blizzard and the whooshing of the wind, Natasha could hear the hymn, sung by the church's visitors. Their voices harmonized in a perfect crescendo, loudening more and more until the woman was forced to pull the window shut, for the sake of the doves resting comfortably in a white, spotless cage near the wall. The woman turned away from the window and smiled at the cooing birds, not even noticing a tall figure running towards her apartment building.

There they sat; Socrates, Euripides and Plato, happily pecking at a human eyeball thrown in. Natasha smiled at them. She didn't want to spoil them with another homeless man's eyeball, but it was the holiday season, after all. Though Natasha never celebrated it herself, she would often find pleasure in listening to the church bells from the living room of her apartment, or feeding the birds with some finer delicacies. She loved those birds she kept in that cage. She also loved the man they belonged to; the German man who patched up her leg when she spared his life. She ran her hand up her short calf. A small mark was left there to remind her of the doctor's act of uncalled kindness. A long strip of brownish discolored skin, currently hidden by her long pant leg. She couldn't help but to smile.

Just then, there was a knock on the door.

"Ich komme!" she said in German, a tricky language she needed to master if she was going to continue living here and work as an assassin. She turned to the birds, signaling them to behave in case her landlord was paying her yet another unpleasant visit. She huffed and tugged on her thick wooly sweater before opening the door.

Before her stood a man. Heimlich Dienstag, the doctor who patched up her leg and became somewhat of a close companion over the past years. He shivered in front of her, snow falling off his shoulders and his thick dark hair. He propped his glasses up with his stiff index finger. He spoke quickly, his teeth chattering.

"_Hallo_ Natasha," he said. "Ze vife is throwing a bit off _ein _fit. May I stay here for a vhile?" he asked, raising his shoulders. Natasha blinked, before she shrieked in near ecstasy.

"Heimlich!"

She wrapped her hands around him and raised herself up to the tips of her toes in order to be at near eye level with the doctor. He shut the door behind him, kissing her forehead affectively.

"I missed you so much, Heimlich!" She squeaked.

"I missed you, too." He said, looking over her short, blonde locks. There he saw a cage with his favorite doves, which he gave to Natasha to keep them safe from his wife.

"_Meine Liebchen! _How are you?" he asked, running over to them. The question was more rhetorical, as he could see that the doves were doing just fine. He stretched his index finger through the cage bars, stroking Plato's tiny feathered head. Natasha smiled at the doctor, who was examining their dinner.

"An eyeball?" he turned to her; "You're spoiling them."

Natasha then grabbed his hand and dragged the puzzled doctor into the kitchen. She could barely contain her giggles as she instructed him to stand next to the refrigerator.

"I have a surprise for you, doctor…" she smiled, opening the fridge.

The thing in the refrigerator was a man. A dead, homeless, dirty man, who appeared to have been stabbed. His left eye was missing, and all that remained of it was a gaping eye socket, filled with clotted blood. She gave the eye earlier to the doves. The murder weapon was sticking out of his abdomen; a simple green plastic toothbrush. Heimlich was puzzled for a moment. Natasha noticed this. The lifeless body began to topple over, so Natasha grabbed his dirty jacket and pushed him back inside, closing the door hastily.

"You know how you're thinking of opening practice? But you need money?"

"…_ja…?_" Heimlich asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Well…I… I wanted to make job easier. This man was quite healthy… his organs are fully harvestable. You can take them out and sell them on the black market like you do when your patients die! It's like that, only… without lawsuit." She smiled nervously, looking at the doctor's expression. She noticed a small tear gleaming in his eye.

"You… you killed _ein_ man for _mich_?" He asked.

"D…Da, doctor."

She suddenly felt his strong arms grabbing her with intense force. All air escaped her as the doctor thanked her.

"Zhis ist ze best thing anyone has ever done for _mich_!"

This was perfect. This was truly perfect. How much does a kidney sell for? _That much?_ How about a heart? Put all of that together, and he could be a millionaire! That left more than enough money to open up a clinic. Maybe…maybe then he could buy that antique forceps he had his eyes on! An then he could spend the rest of the money on something silly, like retractors, and golden tongue depressors, and diamond encrusted scalpels, and-!

"Oh, and doctor?"

The doctor was caught in the middle of a daydream, and shook his head, trying to get back into reality. He looked at Natasha, who was now turning blue due to the lack of oxygen. He let go of her, and the act made him feel like he had just cut off his own limb.

"Do not spend any money earned on expensive medical supplies. You have enough of those." She breathed heavily, looking at a pot on the stove. It seemed to be filled with some strange, soupy liquid. The doctor was sure at that point that Natasha was psychic, or at least, knew him well enough to know what he was thinking about down to every last detail. He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. He looked out of the window.

"_Sorry I didn't cook anything," _he could hear her say through the kitchen; "_I wasn't expecting company!"_ She walked out of the kitchen, carrying the large pot in her hands. "Could you open the window, doctor?"

The doctor did so, and soon the pleasant warmth was coming out of the room, and the choir music filled the area. A couple of carolers were singing their own songs, just below the window. Heimlich frowned, but Natasha sighed with a faint smile.

"Listen to them, doctor. Listen to the happy sounds those playful carolers make. They are so innocent. They live to bring joy. We can all learn from that…"

The doctor shrugged, not used to having his sadistic sweetheart speak like that. Natasha mimicked his action.

"Oh, well…"

With that, she poured the soup out of the window, and it landed in thick layers atop the poor carolers. Steam was coming out of the now empty pot, and the carolers complained about a burning sensation they felt on their faces and arms, the only uncovered parts of their bodies. Heimlich looked at the now completely red singers. Natasha stuck her head out of the window.

**"YOU ARE SINGING OFF KEY! IN RUSSIA, THEY WOULD HAVE HAD YOU SHOT!"**

She placed the hot metal pot in her left hand and closed the window with her right.

"Do you always do that to carolers on Christmas?" Asked Heimlich, as Natasha placed the pot back on the stove. She rubbed her red hands together as she sat playfully on the round dining room table, built for two but usually used by one.

"Only when I'm in a festive mood. Normally, I stab them with a toothbrush," she smiled.

"So! What brings you here? Your wife kicked you out, huh?" She asked, sounding surprisingly cheerful. Heimlich sighed as he went up to her.

"_Na ja_. More talk about children." He shrugged. "I finally told her that I'm not interested in them."

"I hate kids," Natasha agreed. "So, are you going to leave her?" She kicked her legs excitedly. Heimlich looked at her with sorrow in his eyes.

"No. I don't think it vould do vell for my reputation."

"Oh… So, you're staying with her? You're coming back to her? Will she let you back?"

"Oh, she'll let me back home, but I fear zhat I von't make it out alive again," he chuckled. He looked back up, half expecting Natasha to throw in a couple of jokes about manslaughter. But she just sat there, on the table, thinking about something.

"Natasha…" he started; "You know how I feel about you. But it's just that…"

"I know," she raised her hand up and looked away; "You wouldn't be caught dead with me. What would the neighbors think?"

"Exactly!" he said with a hint of joy in his voice. Sadly, he would soon realize that this might have been the worst thing that he could have said at the time. Natasha kicked her feet again, nervously and sadly this time. She sighed.

"Vat's vrong, Natasha?" He asked her again.

"Do you love that woman?"

Heimlich scoffed, shocked by the question. "Do I… No! No, no, no, of course not! Vhy on Earth vould you ask me zhat?"

"Because, doctor… It's like you care about her more than you care about me."

Heimlich didn't get any of that, but, unfortunately, Natasha was willing to explain.

"Doctor… we both know that…if you didn't get kicked out… you would be with her now. And not with me."

"Natasha, you know I spend all the time I can vith you!" He said, sitting next to her on the table that miraculously supported their combined weight. He tried not to get too fascinated by this.

"I know you try but… when was the last time you were here, doctor? Two weeks? Three weeks? A month? Either way, I haven't seen you in a long time…"

The doctor expected an addition to her rant which never came. He tapped his palm against his knee before lifting it up, half annoyed by her.

"If ze only problem is me showing up less it can be easily fixed."

Of course, this was just the tip of the iceberg.

"You know, Heimlich, I may not look it, but I actually have emotions from time to time. I can't expect you to visit all the time. I can't expect you to leave your wife… but if you don't love her as much as you say you love me… why is it so hard for you to leave Julia?"

"But Natasha! The reputation… the neighbors!"

"You know what?" Natasha turned back to him; "I understand. Nobody wants to be with an obese Soviet woman. But when you're with me, at least pretend that you do! Nobody knows, doctor! Nobody knows about us! And if they did at one point, I stabbed them with a toothbrush!"

Heimlich wanted to smile at that. He really, truly and honestly did. But it wouldn't have been appropriate. He continued to listen to her, the idea of all the people with a toothbrush stuck in their abdomen pecking at the back of his head.

"I am not emotional. I laugh at misery, I admire death. I am cold-hearted, but… at least I have a heart. And every time you pick her over me… you break it." She made a pinching motion. "You break it just a leetle bit. I…I'm sorry, I had to say this."

"Natasha… _meine Liebe_, if ze situation vere any different, I vould gladly pick you over Julia, but I can't now!" He jumped off the table and grabbed her shoulders firmly.

"I wish there vas some vay I can say I care about vithout saying zat clichéd expression…"

And suddenly, it hit him. As a small tear drop appeared in her big blue eye, it hit him faster than a freight train. It hit him so hard that his head hurt a bit. He got down on one knee and grabbed Natasha's small hand in his. The church bells chimed in the distance, behind the closed window, and then, Heimlich made his proposal.

"When I open up my practice, I vant… I vant you to come vork for me."

Natasha wiped a tear off her cheek and frowned at him.

"What?"

"Think about it! Ve vould be together, and nobody vould suspect a thing! And it vouldn't hurt to have some steady money. I mean, killing is good money, but not fast money."

Natasha opened her mouth to protest. She promptly closed it. Then she opened it again. A sound came out.

"Hmmm…"

"If you're uncomfortable, I von't pay you anything!"

"I am not _that _uncomfortable, doctor." She chuckled as he stood up. "Hmm… but I have absolutely no medical training."

"Neither do I!" Heimlich laughed. He came closer to Natasha and placed the palm of his hand upon her knee. "Please Natasha. _Meine Liebe_… All you have to do is try not to kill anyone. Easier said than done I know, but…"

"I will have to treat the patients as human beings…" Natasha looked up into the ceiling. Heimlich nodded, agreeing on how hard that could be.

"I will have to wear a uniform… Possibly learn something about the human anatomy besides the most vulnerable parts of the body…"

"You vill do fine, _meine Liebe_, I assure you…" Heimlich said, before he was interrupted.

"I might have to call you _Herr Doctor_."

Heimlich stared at her, blinking once as the bells began to chime louder and louder as the clock struck midnight. He leaned over her, inches away from her face.

"Say zhat again, bitte," he said to her impatiently, sounding both excited and anxious to hear those words coming out of her mouth once more.

"…_Herr Doctor_?" She guessed. Her expression turned from puzzled to wicked in a blink of an eye. Her hand was running down the back of the doctor's leg, cooing the phrase.

"_Herr Doctor, Herr Doctor He-e-err Do-ho-ho-ctooor_…" she sung, as Heimlich began to quiver slightly. He grabbed her hand, and finally, he felt whole again, as he had a part of him attached after it had been brutally removed. Maybe it was her sweet, playful voice; maybe it was the sound coming in from the streets. Maybe it was the slamming of a chair as Heimlich pushed it away in the heat of the moment, or maybe it was another thing entirely.

Something made Heimlich press his lips against Natasha's at that point.

Now, Heimlich never enjoyed kissing. It seemed too crass, too simple of an act to express fondness. But there was something about this woman that made his head spin. When their lips touched, he would find himself in a whirlpool of euphoria, twirling and spinning until their lips would part. And then they would reconnect, and a surge of electricity snapped and whipped through his spine. Now, this was the only scenario when this would have been considered a good thing. Well, unless you were having your heart jumpstarted after it had stopped beating. Then a surge of electricity would be a good thing. Though it wouldn't go through the spine now… Well, maybe it would. Either way, the whole experience would be quite surreal. Like being on cloud nine, getting electrocuted in seventh heaven… Though he would never admit that heaven existed. His best educated guess on the matter would be that-

"_Herr Do_… Heimlich!" Natasha yalled, panicking. The doctor moved away from her as the electric connection had been broken. It took him a while to realize what was happening. He held Natasha's shirt in one hand, and his belt in the other. Her sweater was already under the table. He dropped the two objects on the floor, and he soon heard a short, ringing _clang _when his metal belt buckle hit the wooden floor. His tongue loosened up enough to formulate a sound.

"Whooohm…" he managed.

Natasha was looking at the bird cage. The birds cooed, ticking their little heads to the side in confusion. Natasha did not want the doves to witness… whatever it was that they were about to do. The doctor chuckled and began taking off his shirt, unbuttoning it hastily, and taking it off just as he reached the cage.

"I'm afraid you vill have to sit zhis one out," he said, covering the bird cage with a thin white layer of fabric. He rubbed his hands together and turned to Natasha, who was still lying on the dining room table.

"Now, vhere vere ve?"

Natasha responded by flinging her bra halfway across the room.

* * *

"Eeeeeeeeew!" Scout screamed, covering his ears like a small child whenever the topic of coitus came up. "Eeeew! Ew, ew , ew, ew! Nobody wants to hear dat, man! Jeez!"

"Huh?" The Medic asked groggily. He was currently in a daze, holding his hands out in a motion that resembled grabbing two larger oranges or two smaller cantaloupes. It was also within the range of two tiny watermelons or two gigantic cherries. He looked around the room slightly confused, and almost laughed at his teammates, staring at him. Their expressions varied from looks of horror to looks of almost perverse intrigue.

"Whoops," he chuckled; "I suppose zat my mind has vandered off a bit." The Scout did not find this amusing at all. The Bostonian covered his ears and crawled under the couch. Faint mumbles were heard from underneath it.

"Nobody wants to hear about you bonking some chick! No-FUCKING-one! You know how much therapy it's gonna take to get da image outta my head?! You're fucking freak, doc! You're a fucking… Ooooh! A penny!"

The Scout continued to rummage for riches under the couch while the Medic stretched out his mouth into an awkward grin.

"I'm… sorry. I suppose you vere expecting somezing _ein bisschen mehr_… tragic?"

"Oi didn't moind it," Sniper shrugged. He ignored the judgmental gaze from the semi-disgusted Spy and continued to look at the doctor, who was plucking at the cardboard on his freshly received mystery box.

"I haff spent every Christmas vith Natasha since then… My only regret is that I never got around to spend it vith her earlier… Just because of my… pride."

"Dude, I don't care about your sob-story, alright?" The Scout reappeared from under the sofa, chewing on some gum he found. He shifted a couple of nickels in the palm of his hand with his index finger, shaking his head. "You still don't go 'round, telling that shit to us, OK?"

The Scout looked up to the Medic, who was staring intently into what seemed like nothing. He crumbled a small sheet of paper in his hand. The Scout coughed loudly.

"Uh…doc? Are ya broken or something?"

Now, seeing a grown man cry is bad enough on its own. Seeing an old, sadistic psychopath cry, over a woman no less, was downright horrendous. The doctor covered his eyes, weeping loudly and uncontrollably. His shoulders twitched and he made sounds comparable only to the cries of Satan herself. At this point, Scout actually wished that the doctor would go back to talking about hanky-panky with Fatty McGee. The Bostonian put the pennies and nickels in his back pocket, clearing his throat.

"Aw, come on, doc… Shut up, it's weird," he said kindly, shrugging awkwardly.

"Augh-augh I… I just miss her so mu-u-u-u-ch… And-and now… I don't even get a chance to see her and-and… AAAAAH!" his sobs soon turned into a shriek of anger and panic. Her dropped the box on the floor and stood up.

"I can't take it in here anotzher second! I haff to go… I haff to see her!"

Just as he began to storm out of the room, his path was blocked by a burly Russian, who just came back from cleaning his beloved weapon. The Medic gulped as the Heavy stared him down.

"I heard noise," he stated, looking at the Scout, who was picking at the mysterious package. "What is wrong?"

"The guy's goin' ta visit your sistah. He's a perv like dat," he said. Heavy didn't seem to notice the Medic, anxiously trying to shut Scout up with a mix of hand gestures. The Heavy laughed half-heartedly.

"Enough jokes. Where is doctor going?"

The Medic turned to the group, shaking his head vigorously. Since the Scout had ineptly let the cats out of the bag, another team member had to either confirm this, or keep quiet. The Soldier muttered something under his breath while the Pyro looked out of the window and whistled. The Scout picked at the duck tape around the box as the Sniper inspected his yellowed fingernails. The situation couldn't have been more awkward if they were all whistling nonchalantly while looking in opposite directions. The heavy was growing agitated.

"Where are you going, doctor? You cannot leave. Fight starts tomorrow morning."

"Vell, ehm, you see…" the Medic gulped.

"There hass been ein emergency and…uhm… I… I haff to…"

"Ze docteour ees really going to see your sister. You do know she lives in Germany now. According to your personal letters you correspond with, she has already told you zat she was working for a docteour. He was not named, but his work address fits Heimlich Dienstag's, a.k.a, our Medic's former place of business." The Spy raised his eyebrow, forming a slight grin. "You were not aware of this already?"

_Really Spy? Really?_

The Medic chuckled nervously, looking at the large Russian, whose nostrils were beginning to flare.

"Is this true?" He clenched his fists. The Medic didn't say anything, but his occasional gulping and nervous tittering spoke for itself. The Heavy then looked up at the other mercenaries.

"How many of you know this?"

Slowly, but steadily, every team member raised his/her/its hand. As the last mercenary raised his hand, the Medic was shocked with how badly he could keep a secret. He was no better in Stuttgart, yet no one knew then. Of course, this time Natasha wasn't there to brutally stab them with an object usually associated with oral hygiene.

"You all know and no one tell Heavy?!"

"Now, now, big guy," the Engineer said calmly; "there's no reason to…"

"Shut up, leetle toymaker!"

"_Herr_ Heavy, _bitte_…"

The Heavy pushed the doctor aside and grabbed the box he received. He shook it, trying to figure out what was inside. He ripped the cardboard carelessly, until he saw it.

He wasn't exactly sure what it was, but it was in a box, next to a small photograph of his sister holding a small dove in her hands. She smiled at it, and Heavy could make out the words scribbled on the back by his sister, in her usual, messy, cursive handwriting.

_I found another dove today. I named her Hippolyta. She shares Plato's enthusiasm for human liver. I think she and Archimedes would get along fine, but I need to fatten her up before I ship her. The antique instrument you have requested is in the box. I hope it didn't break during shipping. If it did, I would have a couple of spines to break. -Natasha_

The Heavy didn't know what to make of this. He presented the doctor with the box, pointing at the unknown instrument taking up most of the box. The Medic gingerly took it and looked inside. His eyes almost fell out of his head as he saw it. The Scout looked over his shoulder, only to be let down.

"Wat da hell is dat?" he asked, disappointedly.

"It's a 17th century syringe," he said, mesmerized by it. "Used by European royalty. I think this is vat vas used to poison Elizabeth I. I… I haff spent years searching for this, and now…" he ran his fingers over the glass of the small pump. "Natasha… now mein life ist complete!"

**_POW!_**

The doctor dropped the box on the floor, and the elusive syringe broke into a million pieces. The Medic didn't care about this, now he was worried about ever seeing on his right eye again. The Heavy was breathing heavily above him, reaching out his fist to hit him again. It took all of the other mercenaries to control the mad Russian. The Medic stood up from the now broken coffee table he fell onto, and brought his hands close to his ringing ears. He could hear bells, overpowering the Heavy's profanities.

"Let me go!" He shouted, managing to throw the Bostonian off his back. "I will not calm down! And you are next! You are all dead!"

The Sniper tried to talk some sense into the Russian, but failed to do so. The Russian already had to have some sense to begin with. He casually left the shouting crowd, and walked up to the letter the Medic had dropped. He scratched the back of his head and lifted it up.

"Oy!"

The group remained frozen in place, and the whole situation seemed comical; the Russian grabbing the Medic's collar, the Pyro pulling Heavy's arm away, the Scout trying to beat some sense into the Russian with his baseball bat, the Engineer pulling the Medic away, the Soldier and the Demoman shouting encouragement to the Russian and making bets, all down to the Spy who watched the whole fight while standing idly by, smoking his cigarette.

"You blokes are embarrasin'," the Sniper muttered, fixing the rim of his Professional's Panama. The heavy let go of the Medic and shook off the Scout, who fell down with a shout.

"Ow! My spine!" he shrieked, but was ignored because he was a brat.

"What is letter?" asked the Heavy. Quite soon, the Medic was nervously biting his nails while the Sniper cleared his throat to read the note.

"This should be good," said the Spy, stomping out his cigarette on the floor.

"Ahem," the Sniper continued. He read the letter in his best fancy tone of voice, but his very Australian accent made the whole bit seem just a little too ridiculous.

"_Moi dearest Natasha, thank ye so much for the package. Thank ye for tryin' to keep us a secret as much as Oi am…_ Ha! A bloody secret. Good one, doc," the Sniper snickered before he continued; "_Oi like how you signed it. Oi hardly doubt any of these idiots know wot… _uh… _Doine… Lehiebe means._"

"Liebe," the Medic corrected him, only to get a sharp look of warning from the Heavy. He flinched.

"Continue," ordered the Heavy, keeping his arms crossed.

_"I absolutely hate every day Oi spend without you. As much as Oi love the job, Oi absolutely hate moi ditsy, complaining, idiotic colleagues." _The Sniper raised his eyebrow to the Medic. "Oh, and Oi 'spose yer the fuckin' demi-god of RED, eh?"

"Continue!" Snapped the Heavy. Sniper huffed.

"Jeez, alroight, Croist mate, don't get yer knickers in a twist… ahem; _Whenever I get a package from you, or look at Archimedes, Oi'm reminded of you. I truly miss you, Oi hope you know that. Oi sometimes think about coming back, leavin' all of these idiots behind. But Oi'm stuck 'ere, and every day I spend with you hurts jus' a little more."_

"Blegh!" Exclaimed the Scout, still lying on the floor.

"_But Oi try to withstand this. The sooner this ends, the sooner Oi'll come back to ye. Yer the only person that keeps me believin' that life is worth livin', the only person Oi don't hate with all moi moight… _It's koind of cute if ye ask me… _Oi can't wait to hear about that new dove you found. You remoind me so much of a dove yaself. But Oi'm repeatin' meself. The fact is, you're moi beacon of hope in this drab world, and Oi can't wait ta… _Aaaand, that's all he wrote," the Sniper concluded, folding the letter. He didn't want to say that the next three paragraphs of the letter were extremely erotic and a bit too medically accurate for a love letter. He subtly placed the folded piece of paper in his back pocket for later use.

"Wow." The Spy turned to the Medic; "You really are a man of letters," he said sarcastically.

The Heavy looked back at the doctor, a serious look on his face.

"Look, Heavy, before I…"

"Do you love Heavy's seester?"

"…huh?"

"Do you?"

"Well…" the Medic fidgeted. "Kind of. This is simply because I cannot find a more appropriate vord for it. Love is too plain. Too used up, too clichéd, and…"

"Do you or do you not?" The Heavy asked, not caring much for the doctors pseudo-philosophical babbling. The other mercenaries looked at the doctor in suspense. The Medic finally managed to open his eye, now decorated with an impressive shiner. He smiled.

"Well…" he gulped. "I mean…I…Yes."

The pain the Medic felt then exceeded any ache that left him with a black eye, a wound, or a broken bone. Actually, this was extremely similar to having your bones broken. The Heavy was crushing his ribs, giving him a bear hug, much to the amusement of other teammates.

"My doctor and seester together! This best day of Heavy's life!"

The Medic wheezed as he was put down. He preferred a punch in the eye to this any day of the week, and possibly twice on Sunday.

"So," Heavy said with a smile; "When is wedding?"

"Huh?"

"In Russia, when two people love each other, they marry. Celebration then lasts for days. Is tradition!" He looked down at the doctor, his pupils widening with something that could be defined as the root of anger. "Unless leetle doctor wants to break tradition…"

"No!" The doctor panicked; "No, no, no, it's not zhat, _aber_… mein divorce is not yet finalized. I mean, my vife did try to kill me, and evicted me two years ago, but legally speaking ve're still…"

"When?" Heavy asked again, crossing his arms. The Medic could hear the Soldier and the Demoman making bets in the distance. They were putting all the money on the Heavy.

"July!" The Medic shrieked loudly and unexpectedly. "July 14th."

"…Good. I will be there!" The Heavy slapped the Medic's back so hard that the doctor fell on the floor, face first. "Doctor ees credit to family!" The Heavy then turned to the last two classes, who haven't told their story.

"Who goes first?"

The Spy snorted and pointed at the Sniper.

"Hmm…" the marksman rubbed his stubble, deep in thought. "Bad Christmas, eh? Well… Oi've had some bad ones… the one when moi dog Apricot got rabies and died… the one when moi cousin hung 'imself is still in the top foive…"

The doctor got up groggily and walked up to the Scout. The Bostonian was still chewing the gum that he found under the couch.

"Scout?" The doctor asked; "Am I… _engaged_?"

"A-yup. And to a fatty. Congratulations." The Scout slapped his back and walked over to the Sniper to listen to him listing story possibilities. The Medic stayed where he was. He could still hear bells echoing through his head. But this time, they were different. They were festive, jolly announcers of impending doom. This time, they were wedding bells.

_Süßer die Glocken nie klangen._

"Oooh!" The Sniper snapped his fingers as he got an idea. "Here's a touchin' story! So, it wos the year 1966, and Oi wos jus' shootin' some lead in moi best friend's head…"


	9. It's a Wonderful Loife

**A/N**: Oh, God. The Sniper chapter. Well, it had to be done. Here it is.

* * *

_Adelaide, Australia, Christmas Eve, 1966_

_Boom. Headshot._

Satisfied with the immaculate shot, Victor Mundy grabbed his heated sniper rifle in his hand and slid his leg off a tree branch. The acacia was a surprisingly good camping spot, better than he first gave it credit for. He jumped swiftly from the crown of the tree and onto the ground. He huffed as he did so. It was an extremely hot night, and the marksman could feel the line of sweat that formed on his back as he waited for his victim to stand still for a second. Mundy cracked his shoulders back into place and looked at what he had just done. This was a clear shot, and Victor found it a tad too easy.

Larry's first mistake was leaving the window wide open. Having it closed wouldn't have been a problem for the marksman either, but shooting through glass does leave more evidence behind. Larry's second mistake would be the fact that he was too busy brutally bludgeoning his wife with an old golf trophy. Larry came to a quick halt as his wife Caroline fell on the floor like a ragdoll. Larry stood there, looking at her bloodied scalp for one second before he dropped his prize on the floor just as he lost all feeling in his body.

One second was more than enough for Mundy. He walked up to the open window and looked at what he had just done. The bullet went right through Larry's head, he noticed; the only thing left was a small hole in the centre of his temple that lead straight through his brain and shot out right in the framed picture of the happy couple on their wedding day. The bloodied, brownish bullet fell right in the bride's bouquet. The crimson liquid ricocheted off the glass frame and fell on the mahogany desk it was placed upon. Victor smiled. He placed his gloved palm against the wooden frame of the opened window. He gingerly stepped through the gaping hole on the side of Larry's house. He had already killed the man, he thought to himself. What bad could a bit of breaking and entering do?

He walked onto the carpet, knowing that he couldn't dirty it if he tried. The hot, dry Australian soil was particularly solid, albeit a bit dusty, at this time of year. Nothing came off the surface, no soot and no mud. The only thing Victor had to worry about was the dust that could have slipped off the soles of his shoes, but that could have been brought in by some stronger wind. All in all, he couldn't leave any traceable evidence behind. He slowly squatted over Larry and looked around his home. It was much more decorated than it usually was back when he would visit. Before he began committing white-collar crimes, before he started working for some dull corrupted business firm, and before he stole his Sheila, Larry and Mundy were considered to be best friends.

Of course, Mundy understood now that he wasn't a man prone to making friends. He wasn't accustomed to any kind of normal social interaction, as this case plainly showed. He ogled his former friend's glassy gray eyes that seemed to be staring into nothingness. Mundy sniffed and reached deep into his back pocket. He pulled out a small rectangular object, along with a pen. The object was a folded photograph. He unfolded it and smoothened out the creases that weren't set too deep into the old photo. Mundy watched the image it displayed; a trio of hunters; adventurers proudly posing with their latest catch. It was quite a large crocodile, and the three people all held its limp body. The hunters seemed really close; the tall, oddly scrawny man in the middle had his arm wrapped around a woman standing extremely close to him, barely holding up the croc with both of her hands. The man seemed to be saying something to another hunter, laughing at something whole-heartedly as he propped the croc's head up for the camera. Mundy had watched this tattered, cigarette burnt photograph many times before. He could have described it to the last possible detail; the van tucked between the two male hunters in the background, the crocodile's coppery eyeball popping out of its rough, grayish skin, all the way down to the crocodile tooth necklace on the redheaded woman's neck. Victor took the pen and clicked it on, and soon found himself marking a small X on two of the faces. Soon the woman's nervous expression and the other man's laughter were wiped off completely with four swift movements of the pen. And just like that, the man in the middle was left alone.

Mundy did this with all of his victims. Though the woman was not his victim this time, he found himself obligated to mark her untimely death. He folded the photograph back in its messy, folded state and returned it deep into his trouser pocket. Once more, he gazed upon Larry's face. His jaw was hanging, as if he were caught mid-yawn. With a swift, determined motion Mundy snatched out one of his front teeth. It came out of the pink gums, complete with the root. There was an unusually small amount of blood on it.

When his victims were killed out of their homes, Mundy would pull out their teeth to keep them from being identified from their dental records. This made his job somewhat easier, since more time would pass until anybody would notice that they were dead. Though Larry was murdered inside his own home, Mundy still couldn't give up this golden opportunity. The mere motion of pulling out a small, yellowish tooth from his victim's mouth was quite pleasant. Actually gripping the tooth, knowing that he had taken something away from the victim besides its life was remarkable. It took every ounce of his will power not to continue pulling out more teeth. He stood up and looked at the body laying close by.

The redhead in the picture was so much more vibrant than this lovely corpse. She stared at Mundy with her small, green eyes. She was still warm; maybe she even had a heartbeat. Victor didn't care. He fingered the crocodile tooth necklace hanging from her neck.

"Caroline," he muttered as he lifted up the teeth, bringing her head up with them. He slid it across her face, flattening her small, bleeding nose. As he finally managed to remove the ornament, her head dropped to the floor. Some blood flew out of the wound on her scalp and onto the thick white carpet.

"You fucking bitch."

* * *

With the necklace hanging from his rearview-mirror, and the photo secured by his black ashtray sitting on the command board, Mundy set off. It was an extremely hot night, perfectly typical for an Australian winter. Victor opened the window next to him, and soon felt the cold, refreshing gush of air against his sweaty scalp. He looked straight at the void road, trying to figure out where he was going to go now.

A white-collar crime. He honestly expected Larry to be above that sort of foolishness. If he had managed his money a little bit better, he wouldn't have been lying down now with a bullet hole extending through his head. It was almost funny, seeing all the reasons people would get killed for. Victor had the privilege to see every one of these reasons. At this point, he almost looked forward to killing another human being, just to see what someone had to do to get himself killed. Sometimes, their crimes and actions were meaningless, and that just made their death more hilarious.

Mundy looked out of the window and onto the festive billboard advertisements for Coca Cola. He looked at the Santa Clause drinking the beverage and had the strongest urge to spit upon the image. Victor did not hate Christmas in any way, but that year, he really did not have to be reminded of it. A few more adverts whooshed by him, and he was forced to close the window. The musty air spread across his van once more. Victor panted and blinked heavily. The blink must have been a long one, because he soon found himself driving across a bridge. He stopped the van in slight bemusement. Leaning back on his seat, he tapped the tips of his fingers against the steering wheel. He had absolutely no idea where he was going to go next. He opened the glove compartment with a sigh, from where a box of cigarettes called out to him, like an enchanting mistress. The box was grabbed hastily, greedily. It soon left the van, carried in the Australians sweaty palm.

Mundy barely stepped out of the van before he lit up his cancer stick. The tangy aroma spread across his body after the first exhale. Crickets chirped in the distance in perfect harmony with the trickling of the river beneath the bridge. There was a lot of yellowing grass and tall bushes around the river, but Mundy could only make out basic shapes because of the darkness. He did manage to recognize another shape; a shape of a man leaning over the bridge. He seemed to be looking at the clear water with great interest. Mundy scratched his head before making a turn to the right. Another puff of smoke left his lips. A raspy cough left his throat as the smoke whooshed up into the air, creating a thick, almost milky line across the starry sky. The man leaning over the bridge turned over briefly, to see where the noise was coming from. He quickly averted his eyes as the slim Australian walked up to the wooden fence, a barrier between the men and the murky water. Victor leaned over the fence as far as the young man, flicking the ashes into the river.

"Interestin', eh?" He asked, sarcastically.

The younger man didn't respond. His facial expression, though, did show slight nervousness. Mundy threw the last unsmokable bit of the cancer stick into the river, and soon saw it float away from them. He clicked his tongue.

"So," he looked around, seeing that his van was the only vehicle on the bridge, and the only vehicle likely to drive that hot Christmas evening. "Wot are you doin' 'ere at this hour?"

The young man stared at the river, his hands clutching the fence tightly.

"I'm… I'm going to jump." The brown haired man turned to the marksman. "You?"

"Smokin'. Now, mate," he said through a croaky laugh; "Wot are you doin' 'ere, _really_?"

"I told you already."

"Pffft. Yeah roight. As if someone would just come up 'ere on Christmas, get on a bridge and-." Mundy's eyes finally widened as the man stepped over the fence with his right leg. He was still clutching it and breathing heavily, but he did make his way on the other side, the side a step closer to certain death. Victor blinked once.

The bloke was not kidding.

"Well Oi'll be fucked!" Mundy stepped away from the man, a huge grin on his face.

"A bleedin' jumper! Oi've heard 'bout those, but Oi've never seen one, ever! Ha! A jumper! Of all people Oi run into a jumper! Wot luck!"

"Sir," the young man said, his chest expanding rapidly as he tried to breathe; "Don't joke about this. I am really doing it."

"No, you ain't," he said with a shit-eating grin. "Alroight, bloke. Who is she?"

The man turned to the marksman with a bewildered frown.

"It's about a girl, isn't it? Come off it now. The Sheila isn't worth it. Go home, have a pint, wank off and forget about her!"

"Sir, it isn't about a girl." The young man placed his left leg over the fence, and was now one strong grip away from a watery grave. He sighed. "There never was a girl."

"Hm… Oi see. Wot is it then? Unemployed? Livin in yer parent's basement? Got some kind of disgusting disease?"

"No…" the man admitted. "Please, Sir, I… I really can't go on like this…"

"Oh, please, don't moind me, bloke!" The marksman said, lifting his arms up. "Just let me watch."

The man raised his eyebrow at the unknown stranger that he was speaking with.

"Oi've always wanted to see a jumper," Mundy said.

The suicidal man looked at Mundy skeptically before looking back at the rapid water streaming under him. Though the night was hot, he knew that the water would be cold. He knew how it would feel against his pale skin, if he lived long enough to feel it. His muscles tightened. His heart was racing at a million miles a second. He took one final breath, one last inhale of the oxygen that fed him during his miserable life. His stomach turned, and he closed his eyes. The iron grip loosened itself more and more. The man's hand came off the fence.

"One thing, though, bloke…"

Upon hearing Mundy's raspy voice, the man panicked and clutched the fence once again. He looked at the stranger, pure rage coming out of his eyes.

"Yer loife doesn't seem all that bad, bloke. Oi mean, if it ain't a Sheila, and if yer quite well off, woi bother doing this?" He asked, leaning on the fence, about a foot away from the frightened man.

"Please, Sir," he responded, but was soon interrupted.

"Wot is it, bloke?"

Realizing that the man wasn't going to leave anytime soon, the man admitted. He looked up at the stars that twinkled like a painful reminder of the world that he was going to leave.

"Nobody… nobody ever took me seriously. I work as an English professor in a high school. My students think I'm a joke. My parents think I'm a disappointment," he choked on a syllable he tried to pronounce, a tear flowing from his eye. "I…I can't go on, living like a joke. It's like… nobody cares about me. Nobody cares about my pain. Can you imagine that, Sir?" He turned to Mundy, his eyes red with sorrow and despair; "Can you imagine living your life as the butt of the joke?" His body made a series of rhythmic spasms.

Mundy blinked.

"Do a flip."

"…_what_?"

"Oi said, 'Do a flip', mate. It's not always that you get a golden opportunity loike this."

The man watched Mundy with narrowed eyes, not being sure whether to scream or cry.

"…after all that… you tell me to _do a flip_? Have you no heart, Sir? Have you no understanding for other people's pain?"

"You're right," Mundy said, looking down at his feet. "Oi'm sorry."

"Thank you," said the man, turning to the river.

"Do a backflip, that's much more impressive."

"Sir!"

"Oi'm just saying, you-."

"No! You know what? Shut up! I'm going to do it! I'm going to jump, and you're going to shut up and watch!" He snapped at the complete stranger. Mundy shrugged.

"Tell me how it went," he said, tugging at the fabric of his fingerless gloves. The man sighed and prepared to jump.

His nostrils flared, his muscles tightened. The man bent his knees as he felt the strong, pulsating fear protruding his skull. His heart was beating wildly. He was one second away from sweet liberation, one second from leaving this wretched planet for good. The river looked brighter and cleaner than ever. A chorus of angels was heard in the distance. The best Christmas present for him was death, and its sweet embrace. The man's fingers slowly loosened their grip from the long rail. His saliva was rushing to his mouth hastily, and it tasted sweet, like his departure. He took a deep breath, leaning forward and forward until-

He chickened out and crawled to the other side in tears.

"I can't!" He said through a long sob. "I can't…I can't even do this right! My-my parents… they were right!" He buried his face into the dusty, concrete street. "I can't… I'm a loser! I'm a failure! Why must I suffer so?!"

He looked up to the heavens and let out a yell.

"WHY, GOD? WHY ME?!"

His raised fist fell to his side, and he curled himself up into a ball. He sobbed all the way down to the concrete, which was being wetted by his salty, cruel tears. The marksman approached him, slowly. Bending his knees, he came down to the curled up suicidal man. He smirked.

"So… how'd it go?"

The man did not respond.

"Listen, mate, if you need a roide back home, Oi can give you a lift in the old banger," he said, ticking his head to the rusty old van. "If ye wont… I norm'ly don't let people drive wif me, but you did make me laugh, so…"

The man still did not respond.

"Bloke, ye can lay down loike that all noight, or ye can hop in and get a lift. Whaddya say? Where you from, anyway?"

"…hmmrssa hmmley."

"Sorry?" Mundy asked, getting closer to him. The man lifted his head up slightly.

"Ba- Barossa Valley. I… took a cab to here and overpaid the driver, thinking that I won't be returning."

"Huh. Just along the way, then." Mundy stood up, grunting. "Come on, bloke!"

He walked to the van slowly. The man remained in his fetal position for three seconds before standing up, covered in dust and shame.

* * *

They were sitting in the van, Christmas songs playing through their ears. Mundy switched the stations, every change resulting in a loud ringing noise just before another Christmas song came on, that was even more unbearable than the last one. The silent suicidal man was sitting on the passenger seat, staring out of the window. There was nothing to be stared that, but he didn't care about this.

"Bleedin' Christmas tunes," Mundy said through his teeth, finally switching off the radio. He sighed with relief as the _Jingle Bells_ tune vanished from the van's interior. His ears were soon filled with a strange, foul noise coming from his companion's mouth.

"_O happy dagger! This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die,_" the man mumbled into his seat while looking out into the fields, glassy-eyed.

"…you wot, mate?"

The man gingerly turned his head back to him, expression no emotion whatsoever.

"Why didn't you just leave me, Sir? Why didn't you leave me on the road?"

"And leave you to be roadkill? Ha!" He mocked; "Come on mate. You don't wont a death like the one of a common wombat. Croikey! Oi thought that you jumpers were pickier about your death."

The man said nothing. He just stared into the command board. As Mundy looked at the man's eye, he knew exactly what he was looking at. And he simply knew that he was going to ask him something about the photograph, in the man's plain sight.

"What are you doing here on Christmas?" He asked.

"Business," Mundy responded.

"I always thought that only chefs, waiters and whores worked on Christmas."

"You thought wrong," Mundy responded, steering a bit into the right. The van swerved slightly, and they were driving through the straight highway again. They stared at the lights guiding their way. They did nothing to help Mundy orientate, but by now, he knew every inch of Australia like the back of his hand. The two were sitting in silence, until the man ran his index finger across the photograph, across Caroline's crossed off face.

"That Sheila?" Mundy guessed the man's impending question. "That's jus' an old friend. Lost touch with her a while ago…"

"Are you sure she was your friend, Sir?" the man asked. He looked at Mundy's puzzled expression and smiled slightly. "You're holding your arm around her. You must've been close." The man then looked at the crocodile tooth necklace, hanging on the rearview mirror. It matched the necklace the girl wore around her neck.

"We, uh… we were relatively close," Mundy shrugged; "But… we weren't… we couldn't…" He suddenly looked back at the younger man. "Listen, bloke, woi are you askin' me all this? Mind yer own business!"

The man couldn't help but to smile at Mundy. He picked up the soiled ashtray and carefully slid the picture from under it. He cleared his throat, examining the evidence.

"Here's how I see it, if I may," he began, not caring about Mundy ignoring him. "Whoever this girl was, you loved her. You loved her dearly. But something happened. She did something. Or you did something, I'm not exactly sure… but I'm pretty sure your splitting of the ways was caused by this man." He pointed at the laughing man in the photograph, whose face was slightly smudged with ink. "He was a better fit for her… or so she thought," he quickly corrected himself, seeing the angry expression on Mundy's face.

"Something along those lines?"

Mundy didn't speak. He stared into the road, occasionally flicking his bobblehead. He watched it shake and bounce before looking back at the road again. The boy slid the picture under the ashtray. He intertwined his fingers, staring at them in complete silence until…

"Her name wos Caroline," Mundy finally said. "She wos a hunter. Me and moi mate Larry were goin' 'round on hunting trips all 'round Straya. After Oi met her one day, Oi asked her to join us. Larry protested, but in the end, she made a good addition to the team."

The man nodded, looking closer at the crocodile in the picture. Mundy licked his dry lips, trying to figure out what to say next.

"Larry… he, uh… he enjoyed her company more than Oi did, as it turned out. One day, the bloke goes off, buys some stock from Aperture Science. Apparently, he thought it would be lucky, since he knew a Sheila that worked there whose noime was also Caroline. It turned out they _were_ lucky. The bloke made a bleedin' fortune."

Mundy sighed, dropping his shoulders.

"'Course, after that, he wasn't interested in hunting game anymore. He left me. Caroline went wif him. She called me a disappointment before she left. The bitch…" he muttered through his teeth. The suicidal man looked at the necklace, hanging from the rearview mirror.

"Aperture Science? When did he invest in them, exactly?"

"Ten years ago."

"I'm surprised that he isn't a millionaire by now."

"He is."

"Oh."

"Or should Oi say, _wos_."

The man fidgeted in his seat, suddenly becoming aware of the sniper rifle hanging on a gun rack behind him. He gulped.

"Yeah," Mundy continued; "But Oi think they had a falling out. The bloke got all clingy about his money, started makin' irrational decisions. Oi actually think he lost some cash. He, uh… Didn't take it well. He started embezzling money from other companies. The Sheila took that worse than he did, so Oi've heard."

The young man looked at the pearly white tooth hanging from the necklace. There was a spot of blood on it, but he didn't want to say a thing.

"So… they had a parting of the ways?"

Mundy clicked his tongue against his pallet and looked up into the sky.

"Eeeh… you could say that." He looked over the ornament the young man was ogling at. "You see that necklace?"

The younger man blinked, and then stared in silent disgust as the marksman slid his thumb over the speck of blood and briefly placed it in his mouth.

"I gave that to the Sheila two weeks into meeting her. It wos supposed to be a token of me undying love. She left me but kept the necklace. Oi foinally got it back from her recently."

He looked at the small red stain, vaguely visible on the fang.

"…very recently." Mundy tilted his panama downwards before looking at the unknown bloke with a smile.

"Gold-diggers, eh? Here one minute, gone the next. Oi should've seen the signs. Deep down, Oi knew that she'd leave me, deep down Oi knew it wos stupid to get involved wif her, but…"

The young man awaited a response. Once he heard it, he was slightly puzzled at its simplicity.

"Redheads. Bleedin' redheads, mate. Can't get enough of 'em." Mundy shrugged. "But the next toime Oi give that necklace away, it won't be because of love. Love is dead ta me now. No, the next toime Oi give it, it'll be to the first Sheila who can hold a rifle properly. Honestly! Oi don't even have to loike her! Oi don't even need her to loike me. No, the first Sheila, who can hold a rifle, possibly shoot something wif it. There. That's it. That's the closest thing to love Oi'll ever experience again. Approval. Approval and respect. Next toime Oi see a Sheila that Oi don't wont to punch in the face, Oi'll just toss that silly thing away loike a call fer jury duty."

The van suddenly came to a screeching halt. Mundy stopped talking almost instantly. He was looking at a diner. This was an odd diner, shaped like an egg. It was orange and decorated with many twinkling Christmas lights, and even an extremely tacky Santa Clause standing on top of it. Mundy looked back at the confused man he was giving a lift to.

"You know wot, mate? Oi could go for a cup of coffee roight now."

The man raised his eyebrow.

"Coffee? On the hottest night this year? At four in the morning? _Coffee_? _Really_?" It was so utterly ridiculous that he didn't even know which word to emphasize. "You're a loon."

"A loon? A loon he says! Well if Oi'm a loon, wot's the guy who wonted to jump off a bleedin' bridge twenty minutes ago?"

"…touché."

Mundy then stood up from his seat and made his way to the door, not even bothering to park the van anywhere. He grasped the knob firmly and soon felt a rush of hot air from outside. He huffed and turned to the stranger.

"Coming?"

"Is the coffee going to make me feel again?" He asked melancholically. Mundy shrugged.

"It moight."

"…yeah, okay."

* * *

To this day, there was nothing more magical or wonderful to Mundy than a plain coffee bean. When crushed just right and brewed to perfection, it could make all of his worries flicker away. He finished the cup of coffee he ordered in record time and looked at his companion, sitting next to him and ogling his brown nectar. Mundy clicked his tongue, irritated by the fact that the man was still not finished with his cup of heavenly caffeinated brew.

"If you keep up mopin' around loike that, you're paying fer yer coffee," Mundy said sternly.

"I'm already paying for my coffee," the man responded, spewing venom.

"Well then you're payin fer mine." Mundy slouched over the table, lighting a slim cigarette. He frowned at the cheery Christmas music booming through the colorful jukebox in the corner. The entire diner was festively decorated, all the way down to the ridiculous looking antlers worn by sleep-deprived waitresses. The mismatched decorations on the skinny tree that looked more dead than alive made Victor's eyes burn.

"The music here is awful," said the man, taking a small sip. Mundy forced away a grin.

"That's the smartest thing you've said all day, bloke."

"So, why are you here?"

Mundy turned his head to the man in a confused manner. He put out his cigarette on the table, not caring about the charred circle that appeared on the light wood. The man was currently looking at a waitress, misty-eyed.

"Wot do you mean, woi am Oi 'ere?"

"Well," the man looked away from the vision in an apron; "I'm out here on Christmas because some crazy guy gave me a lift home after I failed to off myself. What's your story? Don't you have a family to go to or something?"

Mundy scoffed. Of course he had a family. Of course he had loving parents that always made a big deal about Christmas. Of course he would always bring a lady friend over, mostly just to shut his parents up about settling down. He always did those silly things just to please them. However, this year, he failed to do so. This year, he didn't make a common waitress come over and pretend to be his girlfriend for the night. Deep down, he knew that his mum never really believed a complete stranger, who couldn't even keep her story straight on how and where she and Mundy met. This year, he came clean. He told them about his love life, or lack thereof. It wasn't going to be a big deal. It wasn't supposed to come out as a big fight between his parents and him. The small white admitted lie turned into something much more horrible. All cats were out of the bag, and the argument soon turned to the subject of Victor's occupation. No parent deserved to know that their son was a hired gunman. They deserved to live in a blissful lie, no matter how horrible that must've sounded. Victor stormed out of their house in anger, mostly to get out of the argument, in fear of accidentally coming clean about his line of business.

No matter how much his mum begged, and no matter how much his dad protested and ordered him to stay, Victor still got into his van and headed north. Not too far north, though. He still wanted to return after a while, just not on Christmas day. He went off into the richer part of Adelaide, where his next victim, his former best friend, lived with his wife.

He was here because of a fib. A fib that always kept him stretched out between his loving family and his work.

Of course, he wasn't going to tell this bloke all of that.

"Bloke, ever heard what happened to the curious cat?" He asked menacingly. The man failed to answer the question, as his eyes turned misty once again.

"Cooo-eeee!" Shrieked the unnecessarily peppy waitress, sporting a pair of plushy antlers and a red nose. She turned to the marksman, and her already high-pitched voice raised itself up by at least two octaves, making the entire diner shake.

"MUNDEH! Good to see ya, love, what'll it be?"

"'Ello, Lucy," he said to her, casually; "Olivia already took our order."

"Oh! Well Oi'm sorry, love." She placed her hands on her unusually wide hips and shook her head. "That woman is always taking me best customers! Say," she pointed at Mundy; "Aren't you spendin' Christmas wif your family this year?"

"Nah. Had a foight wif them," he said, shrugging. The voice coming from the waitress resembled a siren.

"AAAAAAAW… Well, if it's a foight about a lady friend, Oi can always come wif you and pretend ta be yer significant other, love."

"No thanks, Lucy. Oi don't think they bought it last toime."

"Well," she shrugged; "the offer stands. Who's yer companion?" She asked, pointing at the man looking at her in awe.

"HORATIO!" He cried as he hastily got up from his seat. He coughed loudly, and his voice immediately dropped down to a brooding baritone. "My name is Horatio, madam."

He extended his arm out to greet her, which she grasped and shook vigorously.

"Horace! Noice to meet you, Horace! Oi'll be roight ova' there if ye need me, love." She slid her hand out of the younger man's sweaty palm and headed towards the kitchen.

"Toodles!"

The double-sided door flapped as she entered, and Horatio stared at them, his arm still extended into a handshake and his eyes still misty. Mundy took Horatio's coffee cup and began drinking, seeing that Horatio was done with it.

"That Lucy Sheila is a real character, ain't she?" He asked, fingering the smooth handle of the slightly cracked cup.

"She's a vision," said Horatio, plummeting back into his seat. "A face that launched a thousand ships… a goddess among women… life's true essence and the purest vision of beauty grasped my hand in her delicate palm and called me 'love'."

Mundy crooked his mouth to the side in reluctant agreement.

"Yea. Oi guess she ain't too bad." His eye suddenly widened as he nudged his oblivious companion. "You wanna take a shot at 'er?"

The man's eyed closed as he blinked, suddenly becoming aware of where he was. He chuckled and shook his head.

"Nah. A woman of such class would never be with an unworthy plebeian like myself."

"…ye know the Sheila's wearin' antlers, roight?"

"Antlers that look ever so lovely."

"Oh, come off it, bloke! If yer that smitten, talk to her! There ain't no hope fer me anymore, but yer still young!"

The younger man looked at Mundy.

"Well, you're not _that _old. What are you? Fourty? Fourty-five?"

"Thirty-three," Mundy said with a frown, tipping down his panama over his exhausted face. The man looked at him in disgust.

"Thirty… wow. You must've been out in the sun a lot."

"A-yup. Oi get out in the sun more than you could ever imagine." Mundy raised his hand up and waved to Lucy, coming out of the kitchen with a tray of small fruitcakes. She rushed over with a smile. This made Horatio squirm.

"What…what're you doing?" He asked, tugging at Mundy's sleeve. He began to sweat quite a bit.

"Look, mate, if you wont people to take you seriously, ye have to take yerself seriously. You can start by talking to this Sheila."

"I can't talk to women, I freeze up like an icicle!" He said, panicking. Mundy gave him a slight grin.

"Not me problem, mate. 'Soides, this is wot ya get fer callin' me old."

"You need something, loves?" asked Lucy as she reappeared before them. The young man's eyes turned misty once again, but he was still shaking.

"Horace 'ere would loike to tell you something," Mundy said. Lucy stared at the man with a smile on her face. Not knowing what he was supposed to be doing, Horatio slowly rose up from his chair and looked around the room. _Jingle Bells _were still playing annoyingly in the background, and he noticed that only the three of them were in the room at that time. The rest of the waitresses were outside, smoking. He bit the inside of his mouth and crossed his fingers.

"Come on, bloke! Spit it out!" Mundy ordered, a shit-eating grin fixed up on his face. Lucy widened her large, curious eyes.

"Uh…"

The younger man closed his eyes, but the chaos inside his brain only made his feel worse. At that moment, he spat out something completely senseless.

"_She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is woman, and therefore to be won._"

"…what."

The young man ignored the stated question, which could've been posed by either the stranger or the lady of his heart, and he continued to speak quickly. He mixed all of the quotes he could possibly think of together, not finding a single quote worthy of his Beauty.

"_The course of true love never did run smooth, love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind, love is a smoke and is made with the fume of sighs, who ever loved that loved not at first sight_?"

Mundy and Lucy exchanged a brief look as they pondered whether or whether not to send the young man to the mental asylum. Lucy soon let out a sound resembling a cackling of a hyena. She dropped the tray down to the table, just as the frightened man opened his eyes. He stared at Lucy, laughing like a madwoman.

"I can't… Horace… I… Oh, Horace, ye bleedin' jokester!" she said through a sigh as her laughter stopped piercing Mundy's ears. She grabbed Horatio's face and brought it closer to her.

"You…" she gulped after a cackle; "You are my new favorite person in the whole woide world! That wos charming, and don't let old Mundy tell you otherwise!" She came closer to the young man and whispered something to him, hoping that Mundy wouldn't hear her.

"Mundy's a grumpy-grumpy." She winked. "Now then," she stood up, releasing the young man's face; "Anything you want, love?"

"Actually," said Horatio after swallowing some saliva; "Can…can you change the record?"

"To what, love?"

"Well…" he shrugged gingerly; "You wouldn't happen to have anything by The Kinks by any chance?"

Lucy widened her eyes and held out her index finger, instructing him to wait. She ran up to the colorful jukebox and left Mundy and Horatio to stare at each other in awkwardness.

"So…" Horatio began.

"Shut up," Mundy ended.

A soft, yet ringy sound of the electric guitar echoed through the room. Lucy danced in front of the jukebox, as a song played, which, in Mundy's opinion, was even more terrible than every Christmas song combined.

_Im so tired  
Tired of waiting  
Tired of waiting for you..._

She stretched out her finger at Horatio, crooking it slightly. The confused young man looked at her, then at Mundy, then at his empty cup of coffee, then back at Mundy again. The marksman slapped his own forehead in disbelief.

"Well don't just sit here, ya bleedin' wankah!"

With that, the young man ran over to the woman, who then continued to dance with him happily. Mundy couldn't help but notice that the man now had a glowing smile on his face. The two danced as Mundy fingered the rim of the coffee cup, his index finger bouncing every time he went across a small crack. He watched them, but wished that he could be somewhere else. The two looked incredibly happy, almost as happy as he was with his Caroline. Those days were over now. He despised many things in life, other people's happiness being quite high up on that list. But this bloke, this incredibly depressed bloke, deserved another shot. Mundy knew that, deep down. He looked at Lucy as she pulled out her lipstick from her cleavage and wrote something with it on a small white napkin. She handed it to Horatio and whispered something in his ear. The boy was completely flabbergasted. His eyes were open wide, and his jaw dropped down to the floor. The man was almost flaccid. He still managed to walk up to Mundy, making short steps, as the music echoed behind him.

_I was a lonely soul  
I had nobody till I met you  
But you keep-a me waiting  
All of the time  
What can I do?_

The man stood close to Mundy, clutching the napkin in his hands like a precious keepsake.

"She… gave me her number," he slurred.

"Alroight…"

The man stared at the swirly five and the smiley face on the zero. It was written quickly, oddly neatly, and after she was done, the napkin smelt of her coconut perfume. It didn't really, but try explaining that to a man smitten with the woman.

"It was so…easy." The man narrowed his eyes as Mundy shrugged. "Sir, I… About an hour ago, I was ready to end it all, and now…" he grabbed Mundy's forearm and squatted down to his eye-level.

"Sir, I… I can't thank you enough. This," he held up the napkin, "is proof that life is actually worth living. I… I'm not saying life's perfect, but it's… enjoyable. For such a long time, I was terrified of the world, but now…"

He moved his hand from Mundy's forearm, seeing that this made the older man uncomfortable.

"Thank you. If I died now, right now, I would have someone that cared. And as long as I have someone that cares, I won't want to die. Seeing you up on that bridge… smoking and telling me to do a flip… it was a Christmas mir-."

"Lemme stop you roight there, bloke;" said Mundy, "There ain't not thing as a Christmas miracle. There ain't no guardian angel, there ain't no magical force, this ain't no selfless act of koindness. Oi jus' gave you a lift back home and ordered coffee. You made it happen."

"Yes, but-!"

"No buts! Bloke, this is all you." He looked at the younger man, folding the napkin in his back pocket. "Hell, moi loife is crap, but Oi pull through! And you know woi?"

"Why?"

At that point Mundy froze up. Why? The question nagged him.

"Woi…" he muttered into his curled up fists. "Woi," he repeated. The young man was waiting for a response that never came. Mundy coughed loudly and looked back at Horatio once more.

"It doesn't matter woi, Oi jus' do! To recap, Oi ain't a miracle, Oi ain't a guardian pixie, and Oi most certainly ain't yer friend!"

"I…I never called you my friend, Sir," the man said, looking around the deserted diner.

"Well, don't! Friends are overrated."

"Well," the younger man shrugged as he let out a short laugh.

"Even Hamlet had Horatio."

With that, the man went outside, possibly to puke out his own intestines after surviving talking to a member of the opposite sex.

* * *

"And that wos the last toime Oi ever saw the bloke. Maybe he did jump. Maybe he's still alive, maybe he married Lucy. Hell, Oi don't even care that much about him. It's weird. It's weird how a stranger can make yer loife worth livin'. Now, Oi know that the Christmas Oi told you about ain't the worst one Oi've had, but it did get me thinkin'."

Mundy wrung his palms as he began to slowly conclude his story.

"The man was an utter failure, and he still managed to find someone that cared fer him. Oi… Oi've lived on this Earth fer thirty-seven years. Thirty-seven years, and Oi don't have anything to show fer it. Me folks practically hate me because of me occupation, Oi had no normal social interaction in the past two years, moi job ain't exactly popular among the crowds… Imagine the Respawn breaks down. Imagine Oi get backstabbed by some random BLU. Imagine that Oi die tomorrow."

He placed his palms on his knees as he concluded.

"If Oi die tomorrow, in that battle… who'd care?"

The marksman stared at his feet as the other mercenaries nervously switched their gaze from person to person, waiting for somebody to say anything. The Spy smoked up an entire cigarette during that silence, but he didn't want to interrupt it. They soon heard a Texan cleat his throat. They all looked at the Engineer as he gave the marksman a reassuring smile.

"Ah can name eight people off the top of mah head."

The Sniper lifted his head up to the toymaker.

"Thanks, mate."

Quite soon, everyone's gaze turned to a single person. This person was slouching in his armchair, smoking his thin cigarette. He dreaded this moment. He could notice that all the mercenaries were dying to hear his terrible Christmas tale. He sighed.

"There ees no possible way to get out of zhis, ees there?" he asked.

"Not a fuckin' chance, knucklehead," said the Scout. The Spy rubbed his forehead, trying to think of a bad Christmas that might interest the eight nosy mercenaries.

He thought of it in one sixteenth of a picosecond.


	10. Mon Beau Sapin

**A/N: **I wonder if I can play a little Christmas tune on your heartstrings with this chapter... Probably not._  
_

* * *

_Marseilles, France, Christmas Eve, 1939_

"Ow!"

"Hold still, Pré-Far!"

"But it hurts!"

"Well if you squirm, it will only hurt longer. Alright?"

The boy nodded and soon felt the strong, burning pain once more as his sister pressed the alcohol-drenched cotton ball against the deep cut on his knee. The small white fibers were sticking out of the loose skin surrounding the bleeding wound. As his sister plucked out the small strings out from under the skin, the boy fidgeted again.

"Are you done yet?" He asked, hissing in pain. His sister Lorraine grabbed a clean sheet of gauze. She began wrapping his knee while looking at her brother. Her big, midnight-blue eyes seemed to pierce his soul, and showed great disappointment.

"Why do you insist on getting into fights, Pré-Far?" She asked. The boy crossed his arms stubbornly.

"Hugo called me a dirty refugee again. He told me my clothes were cheap. He told me that I'm nothing more than a common peasant, now that my uncle lost his textile factory!"

"So you hit him?" She asked, fixing up his bandages. "And then you got into a fistfight, tumbled down a hill, landed on a pile of broken bottles and came back home looking like a man who fought with a kitchen knife and lost?" She placed the leftover bandages inside the small wooden first-aid case, which she pushed under the chair her brother was sitting on. He bowed his head down as his sister fixed the pant leg of his trousers over his wound.

"You can't get into fights like that! You could get badly injured…again!"

"But… he called me poor!"

"That is no reason to-!"

"She said that our mother didn't come to Marseilles because she doesn't love us, and-!"

"That is complete nonsense. That boy needs to be taught some manners… but not by you."

She scolded her younger brother with a long, penetrating gaze that made him look away from her. He looked around the modest home they were in, the small wooden cottage near the bay. The house was surrounded by large trees, sprinkled with delicate snow. Their large crowns were clearly visible from the immaculately clean window the young girl was standing near. She ran her long fingers across the wooden paneling on the wall. The house itself was built on a stone foundation, but their rich uncle insisted on keeping the interior rustic and minimalistic. The floorboards were made out of finest oak, and every footstep a person made upon them resulted in a deafening echo. Adrien stepped off the stool and walked up to his sister. The house was unusually empty. His uncle and aunt had gone to a Christmas party to discuss business with some wealthy men, leaving the two children alone. This was the first Christmas Adrien would spend without his mother.

The first one of many.

"You know what else he told me?" Adrien asked as his sister looked back at him, a warm smile appearing on her tired, heart-shaped face. His head bowed down, but he was still looking at her with a puzzled expression.

"He told me you lied to me. He told me that the Nazis would come here for sure. He said that Paris won't be enough for them… Is… is that true?"

Her midnight-blue eyes widened, making her deep purple eye bags smoothen themselves out.

"No! No, that's not true!" She said determinedly, lowering herself down to his height and placing her delicate palms on his shoulders. She instructed him to look at her. Her thin lips stretched into a comforting expression, trying to force a smile out of her brother as well.

"Do not fret, Pré-Far," she said, "Marseilles is safe."

This did not calm the boy. He continued to look at her with his icy-blue eyes. Lorraine brushed a tuft of his jet-black hair over his stretched-out oval face.

"We are in a war, Lorraine…"

She shook her head at the boy.

"That is a tragedy, I know. But the bottom line is, nothing will happen here. Nothing will happen to you, because I won't let anything happen to you." She kissed the boy on his forehead, which made him uneasy as he quickly pushed her away from him. She chuckled.

"I promise we're safe."

The boy looked around the house again, his sister still holding his shoulders tightly. This Christmas was different. They had no tree, no presents, and no Christmas feast. His mother wasn't with them. Instead, she was stuck in Paris until further notice. His aunt and uncle abandoned them for the night, barely saying goodbye on the way out. For once, the two were completely alone. He listened but couldn't hear music. He watched but couldn't see the Christmas décor. It did not feel like Christmas at all.

"This is the worst Christmas ever," he said, rubbing his black eye.

"Oh, come on now. It can't be the worst!" Lorraine insisted.

"It is! We don't have presents or anything!"

Lorraine grinned at her brother.

"Oh, come now. Christmas isn't about presents! It's about joy, love, celebration…" She giggled. "If you want, I can give you my boots!"

Adrien looked at his sister's footwear; old, tattered boots that once belonged to their father. They were too big for her, and she barely walked in them. It was a miracle she walked from Paris to here in them. The soles had holes in them and the lacquered finish had turned matte with age and wear-and-tear. Still, his sister never removed the boots from her feet, as they represented the last connection that she had with her father. Adrien scoffed.

"It will be a cold day in hell before I wear them."

"Language!" Lorraine nagged, standing up. "Presents are not that important anyway, Pré-Far!" She announced.

"We don't even have food, and-!"

"Sure we do! We have fruit, and flour, and eggs, and chocolate, and butter, and-!"

"Those are ingredients! It isn't food!" Shouted the now annoyed Adrien. His sister shook her head and clucked her tongue several times.

"Of course it's food! I can make you something if you like…" She cooed at him, tussling his messy hair. He moved away from her and looked around the cold house. It didn't smell of pine, there weren't tiny green pricks scattered around the floor. There were no golden orbs hung around a large festive centerpiece in the middle of the room. This house needed something. It needed joy, color. The room was bleak and bitter, it reminded him of just another Monday in this new city. He looked at his sister, a tear forming in the corner of his eye.

"We don't even have a Christmas tree."

Unexpectedly, Lorraine snapped her fingers and tossed back her frizzy, out-of-control chestnut hair with a laud cackle.

"That's where you're wrong, Pré-Far!"

She grabbed him firmly by the wrist and rushed him in front the smudged window. She grasped the smooth, wooden handle of the window and opened it. The view stretched out across the Marseilles Bay, across the lush, snow dusted, evergreen trees. She pointed at the highest tree she could set her eyes upon. Adrien followed the direction of her long index finger.

"See that tree, Pré-Far?" She asked. The young boy nodded, narrowing his eyes in skeptical confusion.

"That's our tree."

Her younger brother snorted and rolled his eyes.

"That isn't a tree."

"That's a perfect tree. Look, Pré-Far. It has a trunk and leaves and-..."

"That's not what I meant! It's not a Christmas tree!" He said crossly. He stomped his foot against the floorboards, half expecting an angry response from Lorraine. Instead, she smiled.

"Of course it is! Where does it say that a tree has to be indoors? Nowhere! A perfect tree doesn't need decorations. Look at it!" She pointed at it once more. "See those delicate little snowflakes scattered across it? They look like the finest platinum. Now tell me who else has platinum Christmas ornaments."

"It's not even our tree!"

"Yes it is!"

"How?" Adrien asked, raising his eyebrow. "You claimed it, but that doesn't mean that it belongs to us." He looked at this sad excuse for a tree with a melancholic expression. When they were in Paris, they had a tree. They had a tree that his mother bought with her own money. It had extraordinary decorations, large ornaments of gold and scarlet. And on top, there would stand a large five-legged piece, extravagant and magnificent, to suit their former lifestyle. He missed that ornament so very much.

"It doesn't even have a star."

Lorraine blinked once at her spoiled brother. She grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him closer to the open window. She adjusted him, moving from left to right. He found this action of hers annoying.

"Stop it, Lorraine!" He said loudly. His sister continued to squint.

"Almost…"

A large, gleaming smile came across her face, and it made her look more relaxed than ever before. Without saying a word, she nodded to Adrien, instructing him to look at the tree once again.

"It's all about the way you look at it, Pré-Far."

By that time, they were squatting on the far left of the window. His sister moved him about a foot away from their original location. She kneeled by his side and chuckled at his bemused expression, his eyes opened wide and his lower jaw plummeting towards the floor.

From that particular angle, it seemed like the Northern Star had settled on the high branches. It shined brilliantly; it was brighter than any Christmas light. The blanket of snow covering the tree turned impeccably white. Adrien had to close up his eyes, disturbed by the brightness. Lorraine brought her brother closer to her.

"We have the best tree in town, Pré-Far."

Her brother nodded.

"The best in the world…" he suddenly turned back to her; "But as soon as I move an inch away, it will all go away."

"Perhaps." His sister continued to look at the plain yet remarkable beauty of their outdoor Christmas tree. "But you have to learn to keep that image. You have to learn how to keep all the finest things in life." She suddenly turned to him, her expression serious and developing a slight frown.

"You need to claim the world, Pré-Far. Everything, beyond the fields and across the oceans. You have to defend yourself. The next time Hugo picks at you… Get him in the back next time! Don't be a pushover, Pré-Far. Make the best of the world. Wear the finest suits, eat the finest foods, handle the finest arms if you must handle them at all!"

Lorraine took a deep breath, realizing that her face was turning beet red from that speech. Adrien was staring into her deep blue eyes with anticipation.

"I will not always be there to protect you. Mother won't be coming soon. You have to learn to stay out of trouble but still get what you desire."

Adrien blinked.

"Did Philippe tell you that? That man from the Resistance you met that one time at the market?"

She blushed once more, though this time not because of the adrenaline rush. She seemed embarrassed.

"You know what?" She quickly changed the subject; "I think there might be some fruitcake in the kitchen. I'll go get it…" She stood up and turned around. "That star looks good enough to wish upon, Pré-Far."

Adrien chuckled at her.

"You like Philippe, don't you?"

"Go on now!" She said, avoiding eye-contact with her brother who knew too much of her love life. "Make a wish, brother."

Adrien looked at the beaming star once again. It twinkled in the dark, propped up on an evergreen statue. It flickered in the night, like a candle in the wind. Adrien grasped the windowpane and leaned forward. He felt the cold air against his fresh shiner, against his pale face. He smiled at the star.

"I wish mother were here."

As he turned around, he saw his sister, standing completely still. She was standing near the kitchen door, her right hand grabbing the doorframe. Her grasped was becoming tighter and tighter still. She didn't turn around, but Adrien could imagine tears coming down her eye bags, sliding down her cheeks.

"Perhaps…" Her voice suddenly broke into a weep; "Perhaps next year."

* * *

But there was no next year.

"Next week, I found out that my mother had died. She was shot in the head during a riot. Soon after, Marseilles was occupied and bombed. Lorraine and I hid in our uncle's basement. I remember telling her that she broke her promise, how she lied to me. I… I didn't speak to her at all after that. She died six months after."

The Spy lit up another cigarette and released a puff of smoke. The other mercenaries watched him in silence.

"'_I hate you'._ My last words to my sister were '_I hate you'._ I only hated her for trying to protect me, for trying to shelter me. She tried to give me hope." He looked back up at the men, staring at him with interest.

"I understand that it wasn't the worst Christmas I could have had. After that, I spent my Christmases alone…I never wanted to tell anybody about this. It… It wasn't my worst Christmas, but to me… it was my last."

That was supposed to be the end of that. Adrien wanted the entire issue to be done with. But his colleagues were still looking. They felt odd for the conniving Frenchman. They felt sorry for him. Adrien could feel it. Though he was sitting comfortably in his chair, he felt as if he were sitting on a bed of nails. He hated being felt sorry for. The fifteen eyes penetrated his very soul to the point where it was unbearable to be in the same room with them. He felt ill. He needed to escape, quickly. Adrien's heart began racing, and his face was turning red under his balaclava. The moment of sorrow lasted merely two seconds, but it felt like a decade. With haste, Adrien cloaked himself and vanished into thin air. The other mercenaries stared in the direction of his footsteps that echoed through the room.

Everything was said. The Soldier huffed and the Medic began humming a nervous tune.

"Well," the Demoman said finally; "That was depressing."

"Whose dumb idea was dis, anyway?" Asked the Scout.

* * *

Getting the alcohol was a good idea.

No, scratch that; getting the liquor was a _great _idea.

The Sniper needed to get out of that drab room. He needed to get his mind off the depressing tales of his colleagues. He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. He grabbed three beers in one hand. They were extremely cold; the mist was condensing on the dark glass. It developed a film of small droplets. The marksman shut the refrigerator door with his foot and sighed, looking upwards.

"Oi know yer in here, Spook," he said, turning towards the kitchen sink. "That watch can hoide you, but it can't hoide yer fancy cigarette smoke."

Almost instantaneously, the Frenchman's figure appeared next to the cluttered sink. He ticked away some ashes off his cancer stick. The silent charred flames made their up across the thin, white paper. They turned it brown, bit by bit. Soon, the paper would crumble, and leave only soot and dust behind. Such was life. In the end, nothing remained.

The Frenchman looked towards the marksman. His eyes were slightly red, and not only because of the smoke that whipped through the air. Still, he didn't say anything. He remained calm, stoic as always. He did mutter out one sentence, one proof that he was still thinking about the subject.

"That nickname she gave me… Pré-Far… It was short for _précieux fardeau_."

"Wot, um…" the Sniper choked on a word he tried to pronounce; "Wot's that mean?"

The sly assassin looked away from the Australian and dropped the cigarette in the sink, ending its existence forever.

"Precious burden."

He chuckled painfully. "I never understood why she called me a burden, precious or not… but now it's clear. And every day, it gets a little bit clearer."

The Sniper walked up to the Frenchman, leaving two of the beers on the small table behind him. He gave the third one to the Spy. Normally, the Frenchman would be greatly insulted if he was offered such a plain, low-class beverage. This time, it did not bother him. He flipped the cap off the bottle's neck with a swift movement of his thumb. Quite soon, he was guzzling down the light brown liquid like it was the nectar of the gods. The Sniper looked at him, his lips pressed together tightly. As the Spy finally finished his drinking session halfway through the bottle, he carefully placed it near the sink, somewhat disgusted by the bitter taste it left along his throat.

"I remembered her," he finally said; "I remembered her face."

"Hm."

"You know, Mundy, I… I never wanted to think about her. It was… too painful. I spent all of my Christmases alone, drinking. I never wanted to spend the evening with my friends, colleagues, not even the BLU Scout's mother."

With a sigh, the Spy clutched his head, leaning over the sink and crutching his torso with his elbows.

"I love her too much to let her see me like this. I love her too much to ruin her Christmas."

The Australian gingerly placed the palm of his gloved hand on Spy's shoulder, to which he reacted by jerking it away instantaneously.

"I do not want your pity, bushman!" He snapped. "I have not stooped that low yet."

"Oi'm not pitying you, Spook," said the Sniper; "Oi'm just… here."

A few drops of water dripped down the faucet and onto the cigarette resting on the plates in the kitchen sink. The Frenchman's eyes observed every drop that splattered into a million smaller drops. The Spy's balaclava was suddenly starting to itch. He tugged at it, trying to make it more comfortable.

"You still miss her, do you?" Asked the Sniper, tilting his head to the side.

"After all this toime?"

His eyes met with the Frenchman's. They were still hazy. The Spy's response was delayed with a sigh, and when he presented it, the room seemed slightly darker.

"Always."

"If… if it's any consolation…" Mundy began, placing his hands into his pockets; "Oi'm sure she'd be proud of wot you've become."

The Spy nodded once and turned his head away.

"Do you think she forgave me?"

"Oi… Oi suppose so. She seems the type."

"Yes…" the Spy said, looking at the small crack on the wall; "Yes, she does."

The Spy heard the marksman pick up the two bottles of beer. The door closed behind him quite loudly. He didn't need his pity. He didn't want to be sympathized. His gaze made its way up to the skylight above him. As he saw him, his mouth opened slightly in disbelief.

There shined a single star. It flickered quickly. Its gleam shined across the dark sky, making all other celestial bodies look small and meaningless in comparison. It wasn't the same star. It couldn't have been the same star…could it?

Maybe this was a sign, the Spy thought. Maybe this was a sign for him to stop regretting what he had done as a foolish child. Or maybe this star was there coincidentally. Maybe it wasn't supposed to mean anything. But at that point, it did. It meant everything and so much more.

_Res, non verba._

He didn't know where he first heard that Latin phrase. But the more he thought about it, staring deep into the sky, the more it made sense. He remembered the bombing, the fright and desperation. He remembered the feel of his sister's blouse as he was clutching it. She prayed for him. She prayed that he would make it out alive. Though the last words she had heard from him were words of hatred, she wasn't cross. She wasn't even sad about it after a while. Spy remembered Lorraine hastily dragging him from the streets at the sight of the first airplane in the distance. She grabbed his wrist; she called him Pré-Far once more.

At that point, it was clear.

The realization was marvelous.

It was a Christmas miracle brought in the form of a twinkling star.

"She forgave me…" he muttered to himself. "She must have…"

"Spook?" The marksman appeared from out of nowhere. "Some blokes wont to get started on drinking heavier stuff, would you moind grabbin' a few bottles and-?"

Mundy was looking at the Spy, looking up into the sky, wistfully. And yet, there as a slight smile plastered on his masked face. The slight, reserved smile could hardly be called a smile, but it was a change from the mercenary's usual, steely expression. He now looked strange, emotional. He looked almost human. Mundy did not find that comfortable one bit.

"Uh… you alroight, Spook?" he asked.

"Oh…" The Spy looked around the filthy kitchen, brushing away something from the corner of his eye. He seemed slightly taken aback with the fact that his colleague was observing him.

"I'm quite alright. Now come on," he said, rushing to the liquor cabinet. "I want to start drinking already."

"Eh?" The Sniper scratched his head in a puzzled manner. As the Spy fidgeted around the lock on the cabinet like a curious feline, the Sniper narrowed his eyes at the stars, scattered across the sky. They seemed smaller than before. They weren't even as bright. But then, the sharpshooter noticed a strange thing about the stars;

They were falling from the sky.

"Look at that, Spook," said Mundy to the Spy, taking out a bottle of gin from the cabinet.

"It's snowing."

"Huh…" The Spy looked up into the sky once again. In his daze, he failed to see the delicate snowflakes forming a thin, crystal veil over the window. Soon, the Sniper heard his colleagues rushing out the base door, the Scout being the loudest of them, end expressing his surprise and delight with a string of curses. He looked towards the hall for some time. He barely budged when the Spy walked past him, leaving a half-empty bottle of gin behind him. He still had that minor smile on his face.

"Where ya goin', Spook?" The Sniper asked.

"I'm just…" the Spy said, not looking at the sharpshooter, "I'm going to get my boots."

Sniper didn't say anything. He watched the Frenchman walk through the narrow hallway and slowly disappear behind the wall. The Spy didn't bother to cloak this time. Whatever he was thinking about earlier must've occupied him completely, Sniper mused. Hopefully he won't be this absent-minded in tomorrow's battle.

"Oh, and Mundy?"

The Sniper listened closely to the familiar, slightly reticent voice, coming from the end of the corridor.

"Thank you."

The marksman didn't respond. Instead, he followed his colleague. Somebody should be there for him at this time of year, he thought. Why not his teammates?

Their footsteps were slow and silent.


	11. And a Snowflake on a Sentry

**A/N: **Here's one for you: What do you get when you cross an insomniac, a terrible story idea and a deadline?  
This chapter. Merry Christmas, everybody!

* * *

"Guys! It's snowin', it's snowin'! Oh my fucking God, it's snowin' like a motherfucker!"

The Scout was cheerfully running around the battlefield, now covered with a thick blanket of snow. It crunched beneath his sneakers and slid into the Bostonian's socks, but he didn't seem to mind it. More snowflakes fell atop the boy's head, upon the boy's Troublemaker's Tossle Cap. He ran in circles, laughing like a small child he was. The rest of the team stared into the sky in awe. There has never been snow in Gold Rush. Was it all a dream? Was it a glitch?

"Well Ah'll be…" the Engineer said in a daze, looking at the sentry spinning around near him. It was covered in white, icy powder. He just hoped that it wouldn't malfunction.

"It's snowin'! Guys, it's snowin'!" The Scout exclaimed. He then stuck his tongue out to taste a few of the falling miracles. "Lhook, guysh!" He said, his tongue still sticking out. "It'sh fhucking shnow!"

"Snow in December," the Sniper muttered, shaking his head. "Now Oi've seen everything."

"When did it start to snow?" Asked the Medic.

"Soon after my story," said the Heavy. The rest of the team narrowed their eyes at the large Russian. He shrugged.

"Nobody ask. I don't tell."

At that moment, the Spy walked out onto the field. The Sniper couldn't help but notice that the Frenchman was wearing a pair of old, wrinkled boots. He gave out a half-smile, but the sly assassin wouldn't even look at him.

"This may affect zhe outcome of zhe battle, _non_?" asked the Spy.

"Well now what?" The tinkerer pondered, unaware of the Bostonian, who was menacingly rolling a clump of snow between his palms. The Spy turned to him.

"This ees 'ow I see it," he began; "We are not used to fighting on this map in these conditions, so I suggest zhat we contact zhe Administrator, and-."

The Spy's face was taken over by a shocked expression as a ball of dusty ice flew into the back of his neck. He scraped off the snow with disgust and looked over his shoulder. The Scout stood behind him, sneering.

"Yo, knucklehead! _Duck_!" With that jeer, the young man continued to run wildly to and fro, still laughing. The team looked at the Spy, staring at the snow on his gloved hand. They half expected him to fall into a monstrous rage and stomp back into the base. Instead, he did something rather odd. He smiled.

"Zhat boy ees _so_ dead," he said just before he cloaked. His colleagues had a good idea about what was going to ensue.

"SNOW GRENADES!"

In a blink of an eye, the Soldier and the Demoman were having a snowball fight of their own; using their standard weapons and new, dissolvable projectiles, they turned a simple snowball fight into something resembling full-on warfare. Their colleagues laughed as the Scot fired his grenades into the projectiles coming from the Soldier's rocket launcher, cheered as the Soldier attempted to jump over the incoming projectiles by making an impressive rocket jump, and hissed in sympathetic pain as the American launched himself right into a building and fell on a snowy hill.

"I do not think zhat zhe spine should bend like zhat," the Medic pointed out.

"Well, fellas," the Texan turned to them; "Ah'm gonna call the Admin to figure out what to do next. Until then…" He gestured to the snowy battlefield, where four mercenaries were already having a battle of their own. "Go nuts!"

It didn't take much convincing, as the Heavy rushed to aid the Soldier with haste. The Medic ran behind him, and even the Sniper followed, clumsily making a snowball that resembled a duck more than anything else.

"Snow on Christmas… God Oi hoite this hemisphere."

The Medic suddenly stopped and looked over to the mumbling abomination, shying away from the snow. It seemed frightened by the mere sight of the delicate snowflakes, falling on its protective suit. The German walked up to the firebug.

"_Herr_… _Frau_…" He coughed. "Pyro, I… I haff listened to your story. I know how much you hate zhe snow."

The Pyro nodded.

"But, uhm… ve vould hate you to be left out…"

"Hmm hmm't knhmmw…" the Pyro replied, stepping a bit further back. The Medic sighed.

"Suit yourself…" The doctor's eyes suddenly widened as he realized that the frightened firebug was holding its vicious-looking flamethrower. Normally, the Medic shuddered upon the sight of it, but this time, it presented a solution, a compromise.

"You know…" the Medic swayed and looked up to the dark sky. He tried to explain something to the Pyro in a matter he would explain something to a small child, if he actually bothered talking to one.

"You know, the curious thing about zhe snow is zhat… it melts." He looked at the firebug. "It's here one minute, gone zhe next. And you know how it melts?"

The doctor pointed at the large weapon it the Pyro's arms. The firebug cooed in confusion and interest.

"With heat."

"Hmmt?"

"Yes, Pyro. Heat. You know what gives out heat?"

The Pyro stared at the doctor for a brief second before looking at his flamethrower.

"Fhrrm?"

"_Ja_, Pyro!" The doctor said as the Pyro finally grasped the point. "Fire."

The firebug shrugged and slowly walked up to the sentry, covered in vicious snow. The Pyro closed turned its masked head away as its finger moved across the trigger. The Medic crossed his arms and tapped his foot. He was anxious to get into the action. Just now, the Spy managed to throw yet another snowball at the confused Scout. The Medic desperately wanted to see the Bostonian cry. He huffed at the Pyro, who finally tightened its grip around the trigger.

Instantaneously, the how, friendly flames whooshed through and made the bad, horrible snow go away. All that was left was some water, pooling on the sentry.

"Hmmph!" The Pyro exclaimed with an air of triumph. He raised its flamethrower over its head. It ran off, screaming and burning the piles of snow, much to the disappointment of the Scout.

"Hey, quit dat shit!" He shouted just before he was pelted with six snowballs at once and fell to the ground. The Medic chuckled at the sight. He didn't even notice the small claws digging into his coat as a small bird landed on his shoulder. He turned to it in puzzlement.

"Hello?" He said, more as a bewildered statement.

And there, on his shoulder, rested a bird. It was a rather small creature, plump as a dumpling. It pecked its long, white wing with its pinkish beak. It did look a lot like Archimedes, but slightly smaller, whiter. The Medic looked at the bird for a brief second before gently rubbing the feathers under its neck. It cooed softly.

"Velcome home, Hyppolita."

While the Medic was getting acquainted with Archimedes' new mate, the other mercenaries were still enjoying their long, rather violent snowball fight. Another snowball flew for the Scout, and hit him right in the eye. He twisted in place and landed on his face.

"Ow!" He rubbed his frozen, snow covered cheek hastily, trying to get some feeling back into it. "Yeah, real nice ya French bastahd! Now come on out hiyah so I can-!"

His raised fist remained still in mid-air, as his eyes widened at the sight of three snowballs flying towards him. The Soldier was holding up his rocket launcher, a wide, self-righteous grin across his half-covered face. The projectiles hit the ground inches away from the Scout, making him fly through the air and straight into a building. More specifically, the reinforced steel frame of one of the windows. The Bostonian could hear the sticky blood peel off his forehead as he fell down into the snow.

"Hmmph?" The Pyro stopped setting everything on fire for a moment and looked at the Bostonian's stiff body. "Hmm thmmk Shmmt hmms dhhmd…"

The Bostonian raised his face up and revealed the now even wider gap in his teeth. One of his teeth was lying beside him, covered in blood that dripped on it, poured down the boy's chin. He wasn't dead yet, though the Bostonian wished that he could be.

He spat out some red saliva and looked around the base, snow bombs still firing in the distance and blowing a burly American off a rickety ledge.

"Mwedic!" Scout cried, covering his mouth with his palm. "Mwedic, doc, cawm own, mawn!"

As Hyppolita flew off the doctor's index finger, Heimlich released a loud sigh. If the Bostonian was requesting him after two minutes, even more casualties were on their way. The older doctor stomped through the snow, hurrying to grab his Medi Gun. He didn't even notice the Sniper, falling beneath his feet after he had been struck with a rather heavy, frozen object. The German huffed, stepping over his face.

Mundy narrowed his eyes at the figure that appeared before him; a suited mirage, tossing a snowball in the palm of his gloved hand. The pompous expression on his face was unbearable. The Australian let out a puff of steam from his nostrils, prepared for his fate.

"'Ow did you get so good at this, Spook?" He asked, regretting the fact that during his childhood in Australia, he had been unable to make a decent snowball even once. Using it as a projectile was out of the question. The Spy, however, did not experience the climate-related issue.

"I learned from zhe best," he said, stopping the snowball in his grip and raising his hand up over his head.

"Now, bushman," he started; "Zhis little move ees called '_La sœur sphère du désespoir_'.

* * *

Thirty broken bones, seven gallons of blood, six French names for epic snowball maneuvers, three broken noses, one snowman, one large combustion that surrounded the base, one successful extinguishing mission and nine cups of hot chocolate later, the team was back in the base.

The Scout ran his tongue over his newly-grown front tooth as the Medic handed him a cup of delicious liquid delight.

"Best…snowball fight…evah!" Scout exclaimed, looking out of the window. He stared at the snowman, its black beady eyes made out of charcoal supplied by the Pyro, its long, thin arms made out of broken boards, and the two carrots sticking out of it; one posing as a nose, one set a bit further south, for comic relief. He was oddly proud of it.

The Sniper blew his nose into a tissue while angrily glaring at the Spy, smugly smoking his cigarette with his drink.

"How the bloody hell didja learn half-a those moves, dickhead?"

"Jealous, Mundy?"

The answer was clear, even though it wasn't given.

"Yo, seriously man," Scout started; "Spy totally kicked your ass!"

"Yer da one ta talk, lad," the Demoman said, still pouring some Scrumpy into the chocolate; "Everyone kicked yer scrawny, wee ass. And Eye do mean everyone."

"What da fuck day a mean, _scrawny_?" The Scot asked, more insulted by this remark than by the fact that he had just been pummeled half to death by his teammates. "Fuck yo shit, my ass is freakin' sexy."

"Pfft!" The Medic shook his head at the egoistic child. "You, Scout, are ein medical marffel. I cannot even make out vhere your back ends and your legs begin. Ze mere fact zat you are sitting is mad on its own."

The Scout smiled fiendishly.

"Been starin' at my ass lately, eh Doc? 'Sides, Natasha didn't complain 'bout it last time she clinged onta it for dear life."

The Medic's face turned red with anger, steam was practically whooshing out of his ears as his voice turned into a high-pitched screech.

"VAT ZE FUCK DID YOU SAY ABOUT MEINE LIEBE?!"

"Da, leetle Scout," Heavy said quite calmly. Oddly enough, this made Scout more nervous than anything else he had ever encountered. "What deed Scout say about Heavy's seester?"

The Bostonian gulped and sat back on the couch. The German looked at his Russian colleague with a devilish grin. Having the Heavy on his side could be quite advantageous when it came to dealing with nosy idiots like the Scout. The Medic nodded to the Heavy Weapons Guy in a thankful manner.

At that very moment, the Engineer walked into the room. His facial expression was blank, his eyes completely glassy. He had just spoken with the Administrator.

"Well?" The Spy asked carefully. The tinkerer smacked his dry lips together, trying to find the right words to explain the situation now at hand.

"Well, uh…" he swallowed some spit and cleared his throat. "The snow got into the respawn system. Nuttin' too big, but it will take a while to clean out. Needless to say, fighting tomorrow would be risky, so…"

He looked back at the mercenaries, staring at him in anxiousness.

"The battle's been postponed fer a couple of weeks."

The silence that ensued was brief, but very unsettling. Snow was still falling outside, representing their unlikely savior from tomorrow's fight.

"So… that's it then, private? We aren't fighting tomorrow?" The Soldier asked, tilting his helmet upwards to take a better look at the announcer.

"A-yup."

"Wait, dat-… dat means we get to go home, right?" The Scout concluded. A wide smile appeared over his face, and his next sentence was jittered by a short chuckle. "Alright! We get to go home, guys! This is…" he looked at his teammates; "This is what we wanted, huh guys?"

The other assassins did not respond. They were deep in thought, every last one of them. The Scout soon figured out why, as he remembered that it was already Christmas Eve.

"I won't be home for Christmas this way either- planes don't leave for Boston that early. Best I can hope for is ta get home like, really late tomorrow. I'll… I'll miss the whole Christmas dinnah." He said this with a slow monotone, and he felt like he had been surrounded by a gray aura of clarity.

The wind whooshed through the old houses, reminding them that, even though they were no longer trapped there, they were not liberated either. Some didn't want to go home. Some had no home to return to. And some couldn't return early enough to truly enjoy Christmas this year. The Demoman gave up drinking the spiked chocolate and gave in to drinking the clear Scrumpy right out of the bottle, as he usually did. Even the Heavy bowed his head down in sorrow.

"Hey, look, blokes;" the Sniper began, standing up from his seat. "Don't let this thing ruin today, mates! Sure, we can't go home roight away, but would it really be such a tragedy to spend the night here?"

"Why, yes," the Spy nodded to him, a frown not leaving his masked face for a second.

"Yes, it would be."

"Oh, come off it, Spook! I mean, wot's the big deal? We talk about everything, we're alwoys here fer one anotha'… We're practically family!"

The last word set off a string of loud hisses and protests. Nobody wanted to associate these trained killers, these sadistic, demented maniacs, as blood relatives. Even the Sniper winced upon saying that.

"Not family then…" the marksman searched the back of his mind, trying to find the right phrase. "We're loike…friends."

This word was greeted with less venom, though even then, some mercenaries shook their heads and waved their hands to show discontent. There was a word for their dynamic, but it wasn't this.

"How about acquaintances you have no trouble getting killed in front of?" suggested the Spy. The team was already willing to accept this addition as a valid definition of their relations, until a voice of protest silenced them.

Oddly enough, the voice was not Sniper's.

The Engineer walked up to the sharpshooter and placed his arm around him, much to Mundy's surprise and slight embarrassment. Dell Conagher looked at the mercenaries, now gazing at the duo.

"Now, now, folks, Down Under's onta summin'."

The Sniper looked at the top of the Texan's hardhat, as the somewhat shorter builder stood close to him, scoping the room behind his heavy goggles. Sniper felt incredibly strange. Nobody ever took a stand for something he had said. Even now, he was anxious to hear what this man had to say in his defense.

And what he heard was…was… Well…

Astonishing.

"Ya know folks, I've been with you here for 'bout two years. Fightin' by your side, celebrating victories, contemplating defeats, planning strategies… spending every waking moment with you fellas. And you know what? Ah'm glad to say that Ah don't regret it."

The group fidgeted around, reminiscing the times they've spent together. They remembered every one of the Announcer's cries of victory, and her gloomy proclaims of defeat. Every bullet hole, every fractured rib flew into their brains, and the sound of the Medic pushing his heart inside his ribcage made the Heavy wince. The memories were there, clear as a bell. Though none of them cared to admit it, everybody felt slightly nostalgic when remembering the day they all met in the resupply room. The first day of the rest of their lives.

"Ya know, we think that it's jus' the fightin' that makes this a team. Well, it ain't. Ah mean, not entirely. Ya see fellas, schemes and battle strategies don't win us battles."

"Yes they do, you take that back!" The Soldier responded in shock. His helmet practically flew off his face as he jolted up into the air, only to be brought back down to his seat by the Heavy, instructing him to shut up.

The patriot crossed his arms against his chest as the Texan continued.

"No, the BLUs have as good of a battle strategy as we do. But ya know, there is one thing that keeps this team a team. It's the same thing that makes us high-five each other after every won battle… it's the same thing that makes up help each other out. Ah mean, heck, there ain't one of ya in this lot who wouldn't take a bullet for one of their teammates."

Though the group wanted to protest at this last sentence, they remembered that they had taken a bullet for somebody else quite frequently. They considered this common courtesy at times.

"There is a word for that. There's a word for the bond that makes us a well functioning team. It's a simple word, ya know, Ah'm surprised nobody has used it yet. Ah mean," the Texan stretched his arm out, laughing at himself because of the simplicity of what he was trying to explain. "Ah mean, it's so obvious we care fer each other. How can ya deny it after we had just spent hours listenin' to all those stories?"

The Texan released the Sniper from his grip, half expecting him to back away. Strangely enough, the Australian stayed in place, still looking at the Texan.

"Our dynamic is simple, fellas. Ah'm surprised you can't admit it. The force that keeps us together… it's… friendship."

He lifted up his helmeted head to his teammates and met their reluctantly approving gazes.

"And dang it, we may not be blood relatives but we are fam'ly. Sure, we're a dysfunctional, insane, homicidal, vitriolic, tumultuous fam'ly…" His eyes widened slightly as he let out a chuckle, resembling more of an exhale. "Nah, we're just a normal fam'ly. And frankly, Ah don't care if you ain't admitting it. Ah sure as hell will."

He slapped the Sniper's back with surprising force. The rest of the team shifted their eyes, nervously looking away if they caught somebody else's gaze. The Heavy was the first one to speak up.

"Doctor weel be Heavy's family. In honesty, Heavy considered him like brother much before Natasha's engagement."

The Medic nodded to the Russian with a hint of a smile.

The next person to speak was the Bostonian.

"Fine den," he said, stretching his arms above his head. "I ain't cawlin' yous my fam'ly, but I guess you're kinda-sorta-not really my friends. Kinda. Not really. I dunno."

"Mmmph mmmph mmhm-pph mhhm mhhhmp, hmmph hmmvwenn." The Pyro's statement came out like a breath of fresh air, and nobody was left unmoved by what the firebug had said. The Texan was starting to pride himself of his achievement, even if it was quite a banal achievement.

"Fuck it," the Spy said through his cancer stick. The masked man was now being watched by fifteen eager eyes. He sighed loudly.

"We may be family, but I will still dislike you." He eyeballed the sharpshooter briefly. "Especially you."

"Ditto," the Sniper responded.

"Well," the Texan rung his hands as he looked around the room. "Ah'm goin' back to Bee Cave to see mah other fam'ly first thing in the morning. Until then…"

He observed the silent mercenaries, looking for suggestions.

"I suppose we'll do what we do every day to celebrate," the Spy said, flicking the gray ashes of his cigarette on the floor. "We'll drink and bad-mouth ze BLU team."

"Dat's depressing, ain't it?" Asked the Scout.

"Any better ideas?"

"Well," the younger man scratched the back of his head, trying to think of something. "We can listen to some-a my records. I got a whole pile of 'em. I mean, it ain't a party without music."

Silent, almost incoherent mumbling filled the room. The Soldier then stood up from his chair and walked straight past the almost completely drunk Demoman. Standing in front of everybody, he placed his hands on his hips and tapped his foot.

"If you insist on a party, we are going to have a party." He pointed at the Scout menacingly, and his voice turned into a low growl.

"But don't expect me to dance, and if you play one…and I do mean just _one_ Beatles' song, I swear to God…"

* * *

_I'm gonna tell Aunt Mary 'bout Uncle John  
he said he had the misery but he got a lot of fun  
Oh, baby…_

The Spy casually listened to the Bostonian singing his heart out to one of Pyro's records. Though the masked marksman wasn't in the room, he imagined that the Soldier had already left, that the mercenaries put on this record as soon as the patriot's foot left the threshold, and that the Scout was currently doing some Elvis-inspired dance while singing off-key. The muffled bursts of laughter coming from the other mercenaries were heard even in the other room.

The Spy did not want to witness the Scout's embarrassment. At least, not yet. After the Engineer's talk of family, he found himself standing in the hallway, his eyes set on a large phone wired into the wall. Suddenly, he understood how the Sniper felt just before making his mandatory daily phone call to his parents back in Australia. He grasped the smooth phone handle firmly and brought it close to his face. A cigarette was hanging from his mouth; he didn't even bother to put it out. He cringed once again as the Scout attempted to strike a high note.

_Well, we have some fun tonight  
I said we have some fun tonight  
Woo  
Everything's all right  
yeah we have some fun tonight!_

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. His index finger then made its way to the large gray phone dial. He turned each number slowly, and cringed at the sound of the dial winding itself back into its default position. He hated the buzz it emitted at that point. Luckily, it wouldn't last long.

The phone beeped as the call was dispatched. At one point, Adrien found himself breathing heavily. Maybe she changed her number. Maybe she had moved out a long time ago. Maybe she would hang up as soon as she heard his voice.

Nonsense, he thought and stabilized his breath. She wouldn't hang up on him. He had done nothing to deserve it.

At least, nothing that he knew of.

The phone line crackled and hissed as the woman he called answered. He could hear her soft, slightly nasal voice. She was angry at something.

_"Accept the charges? What charges, I'll show 'em…"_ She cleared her throat and spoke louder this time, her following question directed at the caller.

_"Yeah, who's dis?" _She asked, albeit not politely. Adrien smiled at her annoyance.

"_Madame_ Stevenson?" He asked, though he already knew he was speaking to her. The line went silent for a second.

_"…Adrien?"_ She asked. A soft thump was heard in the background, as if she had just sat on something. _"What, uh… Whatcha doin'?"_

"I wanted to talk to you about your proposal you made a while ago, _ma petite chou-fleur_."

_"Uh…"_ She cackled. _"I'm afraid you're gonna hafta be a bit more specific, hun."_

Adrien gulped.

"You know how you asked if I could spend the holidays with you and I politely declined?"

_"…yeah. I think yer exact words were "Not a chance, she-ry",_" she mimicked his accent badly. Adrien felt a strange surge of guilt rush through his body.

"Yes, well…" he fixed his tie nervously while sticking his face onto the phone handle. The Bostonian was still singing badly. "I… have been thinking…"

_"O, boy, here we go…"_ she exhaled quickly. _"You changed your mind? You wanna come here?"_

"…_oui_. Now, listen," he quickly added, already imagining her rolling her eyes at his notion. "I know eet's a bit too late. That is why I will only be visiting you in a couple of days. You don't have to make any preparations, just stay there and…"

"_ '…Stay beautiful'_." She clucked her tongue. "_Right. Look I have like, no problem with you comin' ovah, as long as I know you're stayin' more dan a few hours_._"_

"…I promise."

_"You ain't lying to me, are ya? You're actually comin' this time?"_ Her voice turned lower and quieter, almost a whisper. For a second, Adrien thought that the line crashed.

_"Your son's gonna be here, too."_

"I would be delighted to see him," Spy said, clenching his hand into a fist and trying to steady his heartbeat by dragging on his cigarette. "So, I suppose I weel be visiting you and the child in time for New Year's Eve."

"I won't wait up, Adrien."

He smiled at the phone, picturing her beautiful face, frowning skeptically.

"I will try not to make you wait, _chérie_."

A few seconds of absolute silence went by. It wasn't an awkward silence. It was comfortable, soothing, necessary. Adrien found himself thinking about her warm embrace up until she asked him one final question.

_"Why the sudden change of heart?"_

The Frenchman did not feel like explaining himself to anybody. Not yet, the wound was still raw. So, instead, he used his best possible strategy. He said something, something that she needn't understand, couldn't understand, and possibly shouldn't understand, but would hopefully reduce her level of curiosity, regardless.

"_Je crains que ce soit juste pour moi de savoir_. _Je t'aime, madame _Stevenson_."_

His lover sighed, thinking that he had just said something deep and meaningful to her. He could almost imagine her smiling.

_"I love you too, numb-nuts."_

Though Adrien hated the nickname, he did find himself forming a content grin upon hearing it. As the phone handle was released from his grasp, he stood still, still smoking. Not even a full day ago, he was alone. And now, he had his friends. He had his Stevenson. Somewhere out there, he had a son that he did not want all that much, but still cared for him simply because he was Stevenson's child.

He had a home.

And it felt incredible.

* * *

"So, what da fuck do ya knuckleheads have ovah hiyah?" Asked the Scout.

The nine mercenaries were outside in the snow. The Demoman and the Soldier had prepared a wide range of pyrotechnics. And at that point, everyone knew that hilarity would ensue.

"We got tired of yer dull old Christmas party, so we decided ta make our own."

"With fireworks!" The Soldier added, loading his rocket launcher with three large sticks filled with fine, colored powder.

"Ain't fireworks more 'ppropriate fer New Years', blokes?" Asked the Sniper.

"Yep," the two men said in perfect unison.

"So… woi fire then up on Christmas?"

The proud American scoffed like a fifteen-year-old girl.

"Because America!"

The patriot nodded to the Scotsman, filling up one of his grenades with a fine, powdery substance. To some it might have looked like glitter. But it wasn't. And nobody dared to ask what the hell it was.

"Alright!" The Soldier shouted. "We fire on three! One…"

His fingers tightened around the handle of his rocket launcher, ready to fire on his command.

"Tw-…"

Oddly enough, the Demoman wasn't keen on waiting, and he fired his grenade up into the air. A loud pop was heard as the grenade whooshed out of his weapon and soared into the pitch-black sky. It flew up, the whistling sound growing quieter and quieter with every ascending foot. The Soldier snapped at the Scot.

"God damn it, Cyclops! Do you or do you not know how to count to three?"

The Demoman blinked, or in his case winked, and tilted his head to the side.

"Uh…three? Eye always-," he burped, "Eye always thought it went _one, teu, episoode one, episoode teu, hats_."

"What kind of counting is that?! I've got half-a mind to stick my foot so far up your ass you'll taste it!"

At that very moment, the grenade popped in mid-air, causing a massive explosion. This explosion, however, did not cause a gigantic fireball, much to the Pyro's disappointment. Instead, it spread into sixteen thin, bright red lines that scattered across the skyline. The radiating light shined upon the mercenaries' faces, and they found themselves staring at the sight in awe, occasionally letting out a harmonious noise.

_"Ooooh… aaaaah…"_

A few more grenades were fired up into the air, and a couple of rockets joined the bright lights as well. Each rocket dragged a thin ray of red, white and blue that stretched across the darkness and then fell downwards like rain. The men stared at the display, all slightly embarrassed of how much they enjoyed a simple pyrotechnics show.

"Pffft," the Soldier jeered at another one of Demoman's grenades that exploded and painted the sky green, to everyone's joy. "You ladies ain't seen nothing yet."

He shoved a large rocket into the barrel of his weapon. It was an extremely snug fit, and for a second, it looked as if it was going to get stuck inside. But the Soldier did fire it, and it shot high up into the air. It exploded as it should have, but this explosion was different. It had more flames than before, though it only managed to create a small fireball. A dud, some might say. The odd thing about this fireball, however, was that it was now coming straight at them. They Pyro seemed to enjoy the sight. The others scattered across the field in panic.

When the flaming fireball of death suddenly crashed into the snow, extinguishing itself, it was clear that the ball of fire wasn't a ball at all. It looked more like a square carriage, decorated with many red ribbons and festive bells, all of which were now ablaze. It seemed to have been driven, or flown, with nine skinny-looking reindeers. Their eyes were glassy, and they did not care much about being on fire. They stood on the snow, looking into nothingness. A large sack ruptured upon impact, scattering its contents. It consisted entirely of colorful toys, which were now being burned to ashes. Pyro liked this image a lot. Especially when a rather chubby bearded man in a plush red suit ran out of the carriage and began rolling around in the snow.

"Oooh! Hot, hot, hot, hot!" He muttered, strangely unmoved by the flames going up to his face and burning his thick luxurious beard. Though the fun could have lasted longer, the Pyro finally extinguished the man with one powerful air blast from his weapon. The man stood up, panting and dusting off the soot from his suit.

"Thank you, good boy… girl, um… thank you kindly," the man said politely. The mercenaries stared at the large, jolly figure, not understanding where it came from. Scout seemed to be the only one that knew who the strange man actually was.

"HOLY FUCKING CHRISTMAS BELLS! IT'S SANTY CLAUSE!"

The half-burned man waved to the young Bostonian.

"Hello there, son. I'm…"

The Bostonian rushed the man and embraced him tightly, bouncing up and down as a string of questions left his mouth.

"HOLY CRAP, YOU'RE REAL! ARE YOU REALLY REAL? I TOLD EVERYONE! I TOLD EVERYONE SANTY CLAUSE WAS REAL! BUT DEY DON'T BELIEVE ME! BUT YOU'RE HERE NOW AND DAT'S FREAKING AWESOME! WHATCHA BRING ME, SANTY, WHATCHA BRING ME, HUH?"

The supposed Santa Clause pushed the young boy off him and ran his gloved hands over his suit. He nodded to the others. They nodded back. Oddly enough, seeing Santa Clause was not the strangest thing the mercenaries had experienced. No, that would have to be seeing the spirit of Australian Christmas. And boy, that guy was something else. Old St. Nick paled in comparison to that maniac, strangeness wise.

St. Nick chuckled at the men.

"Ho ho ho! I know who you guys are! Why, you're the REDs!" He twitched his index finger at them to show disapproval. "You have all been very, very naughty. Except for you, Pyro."

"Hmmph?" The firebug pointed at itself. It soon received a colorful package from St. Nick, that he formed out of thin air.

"Pyro gawt a present?! No far! I wanna present, I wanna present!" The Scout yelped, flailing his arms around.

As the Pyro pulled away the festive wrapping paper excitedly, the mercenaries shot one another a _"Why the hell is Pyro considered to be nice?"_ look. They were even more confused as they saw the inside of the package. It was filled with black, gravely rocks.

"Coal? I thought you said that ze abomination was good zhis year." The Spy lifted up his eyebrow.

"The kid wanted coal," Santa shrugged.

"Hmmphk yhmm!" Pyro said politely, rummaging through the coal. One of Santa's reindeer vomited out some purple-colored blood.

"Uh… is he okay mate?" The Sniper asked.

"Oh, he's fine. That's just something that happens from time to time. That's what you get after centuries of reindeer inbreeding."

"Centuries?" The Medic jolted back, semi-disgusted. "I'm sorry, but, how are zhey able to stand?"

"They aren't."

At that point, Ruedolph The Green-nosed Crime Against Nature plopped down on the ground, dragging its inbred friends, tied together with a leather harness, with him.

"Well… Guess I'm stuck here for a while." St. Nicholas looked at the mercenaries, sticking his hands into his pockets and shrugging. "Mind if I use your phone?"

"Uh…" The Engineer cleared his throat. "Yeah, it's uh… right in there." He pointed towards the base.

"Thank you. Merry Christmas, gentlemen!"

The men waved at Santa Clause, slowly making his way away from his burning carriage. The reindeer now began to gnaw at one another, but nobody said a thing.

"This is some fucked up shit, man," said the Scout, disgusted at the sight of Dasher chewing Vixen's leg off.

"Agreed," said the Spy. "I think I need another-…"

He was interrupted by the Demoman, handing everyone cups of clear alcohol. He was very intuitive, that Demoman. Either that or he had an uncanny sixth sense when it came to drinking. The Spy thanked the Scot and firmly grasped the cup.

"Right…" he started as he raised the cup. "Here's to a very bizarre Christmas."

"And a crappy New Year," the Sniper added.

The men clinked their cups together, toasting to a very odd Christmas indeed.

Hopefully, there were many more to come.

The End


End file.
